the end of us
by authorisasauthordoes
Summary: Farkle Minkus has the makings of a victor, but he's not playing for himself. Lucas Friar has the resolve to make it out alive, but he's not sure he has the guts. Maya Hart has the grooming of a Career, but she's not as surefire as she seems. Riley Matthews has none of the above, but she's not giving up on the only thing she's ever had: hope. And may the odds be ever in their favor.
1. Farkle Minkus, Resident Genius -- Part 1

**A/N:** Hi all! Here we wander into 2018, and I wanted to put something out there to kickstart the new year on a writing high, so here we are! I'm really excited about this project, and I look forward to sharing yet another somewhat depressing but hopefully cathartic journey with y'all and these kiddos whom I promise I love even though I'm plastering Major Character Death as a warning on this fic.

But really, it's an HG au. Y'all know what you signed up for if you clicked this fic.

Otherwise, enjoy, and happy new year!

* * *

Despite the chill that settles over the district as the Reaping draws near, Farkle has also noticed the festivities that take over his home.

While their fellow citizens huddle closer together and board up their windows, their home becomes grander than ever before. It's frantic preparations as decorations adorn the estate, his parents running around and calling orders and reveling in how exciting it is for the Games to come around yet again. Another year for them to show off their district's offerings and wine and dine the Capitol elite and thank their lucky stars that they're above all that, that they're in Snow's good graces, that come this time of year while everyone else is panicking and fretting and trying to stave off an already insatiable hunger, they don't have to worry.

Stuart has told him so, at least once or twice. How brilliant it is that they can afford to eat well without a care, that they don't have to worry about Farkle entering his name in more times to get additional rations because they're set—they've worked hard, damn it, and the safety of their family is what they have to show for it.

Amongst the bowl that holds hundreds, near thousands of paper slips containing the names of all the children within his age range in their district, his name is only in there four times—one for every year he's been eligible. Perhaps only three, if his father's bragging about negotiating Farkle's name out of entry this year is true.

Either way, it doesn't matter much. The odds are, ironically, very much in his favor whether his name is in there three times or four. Statistically, there's no chance in hell he'll be going into the arena any time soon.

When he was younger, when he turned twelve and he was first eligible for entry into the lottery, this fact used to comfort him. He ate up all the assurances of his well-groomed parents, thriving off the idea that not only was he practically guaranteed freedom from the Hunger Games and all its horrors, he had earned that right. His father's hard work had granted him the right to life, and if those other kids his age wanted the same security well, their parents should've just worked a little bit harder.

It's what he thought for the last couple of years as he stood amongst the other boys, obviously the most polished one in the sea of grimy adolescents. Considering the years of labor on many of their shoulders already, one quick bath once a year and a frantic dressing in their nicest clothes wasn't going to get rid of the layers of dirt or well-worn wrinkles in their fabric.

He always looked great, and like his father promised, his name was never chosen. When he was thirteen and once again his name wasn't called as another boy his age walked up to the stage, he locked eyes with his father seated behind the podium and exchanged smiles.

Farkle Minkus, it seemed, was the only boy within Games age in District 3 who lived with a true sense of freedom.

The older he gets, however, the harder it becomes to ignore the reality of the situation. Less so on the day of the Reaping, but it haunts him every other day of the year as he wanders the cobbled streets of their city center.

He watches parents break their backs to bring home a loaf of bread, and their kids still get tossed up as an offering to the Capitol anyway. Those wrinkled clothes his classmates wear to school and on Reaping Day aren't symbols of inferiority—it's all they have. Suddenly, his good graces don't seem so much earned as luck. His peers' lives are worth just as much as his, and yet he's the one who gets to walk into the Reaping feeling like he still has the ability to breathe.

His father and mother never think about it; they spend so much time cooped up in the mayoral estate running the district and bowing to the Capitol that they lose touch with the people they're supposed to be representing.

The older he gets, the less he can think about anything else.

* * *

Fourteen is when Farkle decides he'd like to start giving back.

There's no proper form for him to do so, and he's smart enough to know not to go to his father for advice on how to go about such a thing. He's more than willing to avoid the guaranteed lecture on working hard for what they have, and the same nonsense about owing what needs to be owed the Capitol spews out every other day.

But he's intelligent—crazy intelligent, as his teacher likes to announce to the chagrin of his classmates every day at school. So he takes matters into his own hands.

He spends months watching his father work with the finances, monitoring how carefully he pays attention to fluctuations in their savings. He watches his mother work with the surplus of edible food they have in their kitchen, stealing small portions here and there until it gets big enough that his mother would notice. He takes account of all of this, slowly formulating a routine for how much he can take and where he's going to allocate it when he's got it. There's so many mouths to feed in District 3, and it takes a genius like him to even begin to map out a procedure. But he's going to get everyone.

He knows the consequences for getting caught would be absolutely severe. There's no way that the residents of his district don't realize someone keeps leaving these things behind, that it's not just a miracle or a random happenstance, but he's grateful that none of them seem too keen on solving the mystery. Charity is rare enough in this world—most of them are smart or desperate enough not to question it. So he keeps giving, and they keep quiet.

Just as his father used to read about in those dusty old storybooks he has sitting under his bed, he becomes an everyday Robin Hood.

For a year, he sticks concretely to his procedure and spreads the wealth as evenly as he can. His parents barely notice the fluctuations in both change and chow, and he walks along the dusty streets on the way to school feeling a little less guilty. Finally feeling like, in some ways, he's earning his immunity.

The factor he isn't anticipating, the factor that throws him off his routine and makes him rework every piece of the careful charity empire he's built up, is Isadora Smackle.

He's noticed her before, obviously—it's hard not to notice who very well may be his only potential intellectual rival, and she's not quiet about it.

For every chance Farkle has to answer a question in class and once again assert his intelligence, her hand shoots in the air a second quicker and leaves him stinging with the drive to prove himself next time. Their teacher doesn't comment on her God-given intellect the way he does with him—a fact that makes him question whether his parents have even more influence around him than he thinks—but Farkle sees it.

It's also hard to miss her distinct eye roll when teacher praises his very breath in class. He knows he should be annoyed, but somehow he just finds it endearing.

She sticks out like a sore thumb even amongst the slums of their classmates, with her ratty cardigan and tangled dark hair just barely pulled into an acceptable braid and the smudged glasses that are about two frames too big for her face. Her clothes are always a tad too wrinkled and her skin is constantly covered with a layer of dust and soot that she can't seem to scrub off. Although she doesn't seem to care one bit, her classmates notice, and she's often given a wide berth throughout the school day.

He knows this look well—it's poverty, in its deepest and most profound form. The "terminal" cases, as his father likes to put it, who there's no point in trying to help because they'll never get out of the financial hole they've dug themselves into. Even though Stuart Minkus has no idea who Isadora Smackle is, how gifted she is or how resolute she is to even the most insurmountable of challenges, he's declared her not worth helping. Not worth a second glance.

He doesn't know if it's the untapped potential or the intellectual rivalry or the curious brown eyes behind those oversized spectacles, but Farkle takes more than a second glance. He takes many. And he decides he's going to put more effort into her than he has anywhere else.

It takes a while to adjust his procedure, but he works it out so that regardless of who else is up for a hand-out that week, he takes a stop by the hub to drop a helping with Santiago Smackle. When he can manage it, it's also a great excuse to see her outside the classroom.

The rounds always get much heavier around the week of the Reaping, and this year is no exception. Farkle darts from house to house in his dark cloak, satchel tucked under his arm, dropping off whatever rations he doled out for each family and leaving small amounts of money for others.

When he steps into the hub, he makes sure to keep his hood on and his head down low. Most patrons are busy with their own business—negotiating sales or trades, sharing cheap liquor with their friends, purchasing last minute Reaping supplies—so it's easy so slink around unnoticed.

He spies Isadora's father seated at his usual work week table, drinking grain liquor and chatting with some other guys from the innovation lab. Acting as casual as possible, Farkle peruses the stand nearby, strolling past their table and eyeing his options as he waits for an opportune moment.

When the table erupts into laughter and Mr. Smackle launches into a heated, playful argument with one of his friends, Farkle passes by and slips the sleeve of cash into his jacket pocket.

Mission accomplished. Farkle exhales, smiling proudly to himself.

"Hey, you gonna buy something or what?"

Farkle jumps, beginning a turn in the direction of the stand he was pretending to examine before remembering he's trying to be inconspicuous. He clears his throat, keeping his head low. "No, no thanks."

"Then get going. No room for loiterers here."

Farkle nods, heading back in the direction he came and praying the lady doesn't plan to question him further. Only one person is acutely aware that he, the mayor's son, occasionally shows up here in what is absolutely an illegal venue, and he's not trying to make that fact public any time soon.

Just as he hoped, said person is working one of the booths tucked away in the back corner. Cardigan still ratty, glasses having slid halfway down her nose as she works furiously on one of the tinker toys she's been playing around with for the past couple of weeks. And delightfully out of sight of the majority of the hub.

Farkle approaches the booth with his most confident stride, removing the hood of his cloak and absent-mindedly adjusting the mop of brown hair on his head.

When he leans forward against the slab of wood acting as a countertop, she does an impressive job of continuing to ignore him. All her focus is drawn into the toy, which she manages to bring to life with one last tweaking of a wire with her tweezers. It rattles, the gears visible within from a hole in the metal grinding to life.

She grins to herself, satisfied with her handy work. He grins because of her.

"You know, you're not going to make many deals ignoring a customer like this," he says in a soft voice, rapping lightly on the wood with his knuckles.

She lifts her head, mouth parted open slightly in surprise as she acknowledges his presence so close to her. A beat later she recognizes him, her expression turning flat and unimpressed. For some reason, he finds both expressions equally charming.

"What do you want?"

"What? I'm a resident of this district," he says. With a shrug, he gesticulates to the other patrons around them. "Am I not allowed to shop for bargains just like anybody else?"

"As the mayor's son, I think you'd be lucky to get out of here with your head still attached to your body."

"Well, you're not going to rat me out." He examines her, raising an eyebrow. "Are you?"

It looks like she's very well considering it. But after a moment she sighs, pushing her glasses back up to the bridge of her nose as she straightens up. "No. I suppose not."

"Guess I'm worth keeping around, then?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of not worth the trouble," she corrects him, eyeing him critically before going back to adjusting things around the stand. It's her father's hub outpost, but he knows she spends more time manning it than he does. "Doesn't explain why you're here, though."

"Just had some errands to run," he says off-handedly. "You know, Reaping's coming up. Have to get all my preparations done."

She gives him a harsh look. "As if you have preparations."

"Everybody does," he says defensively. At the bitter expression on her face, he works up the nerve to change the subject. "But I also had some questions to ask. That I wanted answered, and you're the only person I can think of who would know the answer."

Now she's intrigued. Curiosity glimmers in her eyes. "The resident genius, asking for knowledge from the undesirable hub girl? Who would've thought it."

"Now, I wouldn't say undesirable," he offers. Glancing at her again, he can't help but think referring to her as undesirable is quite possibly the most falsified statement he's ever heard in his near sixteen years of living. "That doesn't sound right to me."

"Don't worry yourself, I have more important things to think about than looking aesthetically pleasing," she says off-handedly. "After all, I am superior in every other area."

"Modest, too."

It's obvious she's growing weary of his conversation. She gives him a look. "Are you going to ask your query or not?"

He smirks, nodding in surrender. She dips her head back down to work on an equation scribbled on the back of a receipt, her glasses slowly slipping back down her nose. He resists the urge to reach out and fix them. "I was wondering whether or not the hub girl would be interested in getting lunch with the resident genius."

Her cheap pencil stops scribbling, but she doesn't lift her head. It's almost like she's a rabbit in the wilderness—prey staying still enough in hopes that the fox will keep going and move on without eating them for dinner.

He hopes he can make it clear that he's not a fox.

"You can see why this is a question I need your help answering."

"I'm not sure what you're expecting from me," she says abruptly, keeping her focus on the receipt in front of her. Her voice is stiff, indicating her discomfort stems more from uncertainty than outright disgust at the suggestion. "I don't have anything to offer you. And I really should be preparing for the Reaping."

"I'm not asking for anything but your time," Farkle fills in hastily. "It's on me. You know I've got the funds to spare. Just getting to know each other outside of that musty classroom that smells like burnt rubber. Just you know, some food and conversation."

She slowly lifts her eyes to meet his. Her expression is timid. "But I'm not good at that."

"I think you're better than you think you are." He doesn't know how can she manage to spend so much time avoiding his eyes when the moment they meet, he can't seem to look away from hers. He softens his smirk to a smile. "All that modesty."

Her gaze lingers on him for a moment longer, lips curling into a shy smile before she dips her head down again. For all her hesitancy, it's clear to him that spending more time with him isn't something she's absolutely opposed to. That gives him more hope than he'd ever admit.

"I really do have to get ready for the Reaping."

"Well, after, then," he bargains, straightening up and stuffing his hands in his pockets. She continues to rummage around with things in front of her, keeping herself busy rather than doing anything productive. "After the Reaping, we can go down to the market."

When she looks at him again, her gaze is inquisitive. It's enough to knock his confidence down a couple pegs.

"What?"

"Nothing," she says distantly. "Just remarkable, how sure you can be that we'll both be around after the Reaping."

There's a lot in the statement that goes without saying. His privilege is showing itself again, making a fool out of him much faster than anything he could've said or done. No wonder she thinks of him as the fox—someone who has so much freedom must seem terrifying to someone who constantly lives day-to-day convinced they're trapped.

He doesn't ask how many times her name is in that bowl. How many times she risked her own well-being to support her father and their livelihood. He doesn't want to know. For now, he wants to keep pretending his immunity is good for something. And just maybe, if he thinks like his father, it'll extend to her as well.

"My theory is that no matter what happens, we'll be together at the end of the day."

She gives him another exhausted look. "Theories need evidence to be proven. To be established as fact."

"Then I guess we'll see," he says, smirk back in place. He takes out another small sleeve of cash, leaving it on the countertop. "Keep the change."

She takes it in her hands, eyes wide before she looks after him in confusion. He's already walking away. "You didn't buy anything."

"Got what I came for," he says nonchalantly, pulling his hood back on over his head before exiting the hub as inconspicuously as he entered it.

* * *

The night before the Reaping, his father throws an extravagant party at the mayoral mansion. It's tradition, so he's perfectly prepared for it.

After spending an inordinate amount of time picking at his hair in the mirror and straightening his suit jacket—he can never get his mop-top to do anything particularly stylish and the jacket is stiff from lack of use—it's a bit of a disappointment to see that Isadora is not present. Not surprising, but still a disappointment.

The company at soirees like this that his family throws rarely includes the actual residents of their districts. It's all the upper-elites of the town like the banker and the Peacekeepers; people who could afford to feed themselves dinner on their own dime. The personnel are never close to his age, so he spends a lot of time milling around and observing the party guests.

Watching the upper crust of District 3 dabble in extravagance is embarrassing enough, he can't imagine how people in the Capitol live like this every single day. It's a tad revolting, watching people dress up their absolute fanciest to impress each other and gorge on way more food than they can actually stomach, but he figures at least they have the right. Despite being the richer members of their district, most of the people at his house presently are still fairly strapped for funds. Eating less than they'd like on a regular basis. Flitting in and out of the hub hoping not to be caught by another elite who isn't supposed to be there.

He's grateful he's yet to be caught hanging around the hub. He doesn't think his father would appreciate "charity" and "flirting" as reasons to be risking their reputation.

The guests he always finds most interesting at the annual Reaping are the previous victors. Most of them are decades older than him, and a majority of them are reaching the average life expectancy of a Panem resident. Still, they party on and enjoy the festivities because as far as Farkle can tell, they're pretty out of touch with reality. Being in the arena does that to you, he supposes.

It's always ages between Games that District 3 has a victor. They're an underdog district, and they don't do much to dispute this presumption. The only thing they have going for them is being so close to the Capitol, but Farkle sees it a lot like their residents and his father—just because you're nearby doesn't mean anybody cares about you.

The most recent victors are at least a generation older than Farkle, but they feel startlingly young compared to the other ones milling around the drink table. The guy is Jack Hunter, a memorable victor only because his Games were so gruesome—a winter tundra in which most tributes succumbed to frostbite rather than bloodshed. His entire survival plan was to stay huddled in a hole he dug underground, visually boring but strategically sound. The kind of ingenious approach that only an intellectual from District 3 would try to pull off.

Next to him is a tall, red-haired woman who has a couple inches on him that Farkle knows as Rachel. He doesn't know much about her aside from the fact that she's the last victor District 3 has had in a little more than twenty years, and that whatever she did to survive that arena deemed her somewhat clinically insane.

He can remember when she first came home, his mother telling stories in whispers to his father about how she was out of control, spiraling and causing panic and having meltdowns every other day. Despite the insensitivity on his mother's part, she managed to reel it in and tackle it because Jack stepped up to help her through coping mechanisms. He'd been there most recently, and he figured it was the least he could do.

Now they're inseparable, attached at the hip at nearly all times.

Farkle watches them now, taking a sip of his champagne as they make their way down the buffet table. Jack leans over to whisper something in Rachel's ear; she breaks into a timid smile and elbows him in a gesture that seems both nervous and appreciative. Probably easing her tension, in as small a capacity as he can.

"Tough time for them coming up," Stuart's sharp, clear voice says, diverting Farkle's attention away from the guests. He comes to stand by his son, offering a smile as he straightens the lapel of his own suit jacket. "Being mentors is in some ways just as traumatizing as being tributes."

"Yeah, I'm certain it's more traumatizing than death," Farkle mumbles.

His father gives him a playful sneer, nudging him. "I'm serious, now. Imagine, having to train kids for a few days knowing that you're probably sending them off to their death. You know, they say they can tell when a kid has a shot in hell or not. Imagine that. When some of those kids come to the Capitol to train with them, they know they're just raising them for slaughter."

"How are they supposed to tell?"

"I don't know. It's something I've heard through the grape vine, every mayor talks about it. How their mentors say the same things." He examines the previous victors with a keen eye before exchanging eye contact with his son, looking at him proudly. "Probably something about their attitude. Their stance, or how they carry themselves. You'd probably be a winner, if they saw you."

Farkle rolls his eyes. "Yes, I'm so sure."

"Lucky for us, we don't have to worry about that." He claps Farkle on the shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Hard work. What's it do?"

"It makes a difference," he says in unison with his father, although his repetition of the phrase lacks the same tenacity. Stuart pats his back proudly, giving him one more smile before floating off into the crowd to mingle.

He watches him go, lost in thought about winning attitudes and admittedly cheap champagne and arenas that make you go crazy. Looking at Jack and Rachel across the room, he's not sure he sees anything in either of them that would tip him off to their surefire success.

For the briefest of moments, Rachel looks up and locks eyes with him. He immediately turns away, feeling an embarrassed blush crawl up his neck for getting caught staring.

But something in those eyes stays with him. Amidst the somewhat distant glare that settled over her during her time in the arena, there was something special about the twinkle in her eyes. Maybe, Farkle figures, that's how they can tell she has a shot in hell.

The only other person he can ever remember having a sparkle in their eyes like that is Isadora.

* * *

The morning of the Reaping, Farkle gets out his slightly less expensive but just as ironed out shirt and marches down to the square with the rest of his peers. He doesn't bother to say goodbye to his mother and father—he'll see them there from the crowd, and he knows he'll be headed back to the manor soon enough.

He's always found the process of signing in for the Reaping a bit laborious, with the small electronic needle drawing a sample of their blood. He can't help but think about how someone in this very district developed and perfected the device, all for the Capitol to swoop in and use it however they please. He can't help but wonder whether those brains on the project are living better for their labor, or if they're still here somewhere, lost in the dusty dwellings and starving away.

Lost in thought, it takes a bigger boy elbowing him hard in the back behind him to snap him out of it. He scowls over his shoulder.

"Get moving, Mayor Boy," the boy grumbles. "We've all got to go here."

Farkle takes one last glance at his blood smudged underneath his name on the crisp white sheet before heading over to the holding pen, scanning the row for the other fifteen year old males.

The ceremony goes on as it always does, and he can see the same apathy on his peers' faces as he feels on his. The twelve year olds standing at the back are likely shaking, unable to sit still or breathe normally—but after three years, the terror sort of becomes a numb kind of thing. At least, that's how he's heard his classmates talk about it in their jaded tones between lessons.

Personally, he wouldn't know at all. He's never had to feel the same amount of fear as they have.

The propaganda film plays, then the speech from the Capitol representative. She's excited as she is every year, dolled up in the wacky Capitol style and practically unrecognizable as a human being. Farkle has no idea how they get their skin such a weird shade of green, and he's a genius. He's not sure he wants to know.

"And now," she says breathily, pausing for emphasis. "Let's choose our tributes."

She walks over to the bowl on the right holding the names of girls, and the crowd of females across the aisle from them suddenly grows quiet. Farkle scans them for familiar faces, finding subtle fear on the features of his classmates or stony expressions masking that fear. Through the crowd, he can just make out the back of Isadora's tangled braid, tied with a silver ribbon for that special Reaping day touch.

"Isadora Smackle!"

Suddenly, it's much easier to see her. The crowd of girls has parted around her like the Red Sea, shining a metaphorical spotlight on her. It takes Farkle's brain a long time to put the pieces together, to hear her name echoing around the speakers in the city square and realize it means something.

Timidly, hands stiff at her sides, Isadora begins the long walk to the stage steps. With the berth so wide around her, even wider than usual, Farkle's struck by how petite she is. How so many of their classmates tower over her. How those glasses, sliding down her nose, are far, far, too big for her.

"No!" A voice cries out, and Santiago Smackle comes scrambling towards the square from the crowd as his daughter steps out into the aisle separating the genders. Farkle watches in shock, chest constricting, as Peacekeepers immediately swarm forward and tackle him. They pull him back from the children, fighting and screaming to get to his daughter and keep her from finishing that death march. To keep her safe.

Isadora forces herself to look away. As she always does, she holds her chin high and unclenches her fists, making the rest of the walk to the stage without looking back.

He can't breathe. His chest has tightened to the point of pain and he's uncertain he'll be able to keep standing up straight. His mind can't catch up to this series of events.

"And now, for the boys."

Farkle has never had to worry about what was going to happen to him on Reaping day. Not really. But the wailing of Santiago Smackle is rattling through his brain, and the most intelligent girl he's ever met is standing on the stage, facing her imminent death with a clenched jaw and unreadable expression. All that potential, about to go to waste.

Except for that twinkle in her eyes. That twinkle, he remembers, may just be what saves her. And suddenly, the fog in his mind clears as he realizes exactly what he needs to do with all the privilege he's been given. All the years he's gone through this annual day without a shred of fear.

"I volunteer," he says flatly, blurting it out before he can stop himself and certainly not loud enough for the officials on the stage to hear. The only ones who catch it are the boys directly around him, who give him incredulous looks and take a few safe steps away from him.

It's his chance to take it back. He doesn't even know what name was actually called. He doesn't know who's skin he's saving from this side of the aisle. All he knows is that Isadora has a chance, and he's going in there to make sure she has the best odds in her favor.

He steps out of the sea of boys, stumbling his way to the center across from the stage. He forces himself to straighten up as the crowd goes hushed in stunned silence. He holds his head high, mimicking Isadora's resolute strength.

"I volunteer as tribute."

* * *

For as long as he lives—however short that now may be—Farkle doesn't think he'll ever forget that moment of volunteering. Defying expectations, stepping forward and giving up the unfair privilege he's had all this time to give a better chance to someone who deserves it the most. That, he knows, he'll remember forever.

Aside from that moment of clarity, the procession from that moment forward passes in a complete blur. He's whisked to the front of the stage, ignoring the looks of shock on his parents' faces. There's barely a moment where he and Isadora face each other, shaking hands before being separated beyond the doors in the Hall of Justice.

From the second they drop him in the west green room he's left alone, the door locked behind him. He takes reprieve in the absence of others, having watched enough coverage of previous Games to know that once he boards the train and heads off on his journey to the Capitol it'll be a long time coming before he's left alone again.

Glancing around the ornately decorated room, he takes a few tentative steps towards the windows facing the city square. Touching the velvety curtains, he pulls them back just slightly to examine the scenery outside.

The square is filled as children begin filing back home, safe for another year. Even though he and Isadora were just chosen, their lives changed forever, it's like nothing has changed outside the window. For all the other residents of District 3, life goes on. It's an indifferent scene he's shamelessly been a part of for the last few years.

He steps away, letting the curtain fall back into place and trap him alone in the room. As the shock of the morning begins to wear off, the reality of what's he done begins to wash over him. He isn't simply going to the Capitol to be Isadora's number one cheerleader. He's going into the Games himself. He put himself up on the chopping block. He voluntarily offered to murder twenty-three other children around his age. He volunteered to do so, or die trying.

Well, twenty-two other children.

The sound of the heavy oak doors creaking open snaps him out of it, grounding him back on Earth. His mother comes through the doorway, mascara staining her cheeks. He searches for something to say, something to explain himself, but can't find the words. As he makes his way over to her, he opens his arms for a hug.

The slap across the face he gets instead is a real wake-up call.

Farkle stumbles backwards as tingling erupts across his cheek. He stares at his mother in confusion and shock before she starts to shout at him, obviously unprepared for this chain of events.

"What were you thinking? How could you do this? Why the hell would you volunteer yourself? After all we did for you? All we've done to keep you safe?" Her voice is trembling with emotion, but he can't tell if it's grief or rage. "You just spit it right back in our faces! How dare you?"

He wants to tell her something to calm her down, but he has nothing to offer. He's out of explanations, and he's not sure he could say anything that would make the situation better. Nothing she would understand, in any case.

Particularly not in this state. It's not a heartwarming goodbye as Peacekeepers flock her the moment she lays a hand on him, pulling her back out of the room. Farkle straightens up, rubbing his cheek and trying not to let the hysteria and reactionary violence be the last memory of his mother that he takes to the Capitol with him.

He knows she loves him. He knows how much they put into caring about him, keeping him safe. It's how little they put into caring about everyone else that's the problem.

His father steps through the door next, treading lightly rather than sweeping in like a hurricane. He approaches Farkle and takes his face in his hands, getting a good look at him. He flinches a bit on instinct considering his last visitor, but he supposes he should get used to it. Whatever he's got coming next, it's going to be a lot worse than a slap on the cheek.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he mutters as his father continues to examine him, tilting his head from side to side. "It's fine, mom didn't hit me that hard."

"I'm not worried about that," Stuart says flatly, scrutinizing his features. "I'm concerned about your mental state. What may have broken to make you do such a thing? There has to be something seriously wrong. We should've gone to the physician…"

As usual, his father is choosing to overlook the point. Farkle scowls, freeing himself from his grip. "I'm fine. My head is screwed on right, thanks."

"Then you'll have to explain it to me. You, the resident genius, will just have to spell it out for your father. Guess he's a little rusty." Although his father is much more placated than his mother and her whirlwind of emotions, Farkle now recognizes the disappointment coloring his features. There's a flash of anger settled just beneath his glare. "Why on Earth would you volunteer as tribute?"

"Well, it's like you said, isn't it?" He shrugs, holding his arms out. "I've got the attitude of a winner."

"Stop talking like that. You know I didn't mean—," Stuart begins, before shaking his head. "You're sick. There's something wrong with you. Perhaps we can ask for a medical absence."

"They won't give it to you, because I'm fine. And I don't want it. And if you had taken me to the physician you wouldn't have learned anything either, because our medical equipment in this town is shit."

Stuart takes offense, but he does his best to remain calm. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It's everything, dad." Farkle can feel years of frustration building up in his spine, having laid dormant in his bones for so long. Only it doesn't quite feel like his anger—it's the collective feeling of their entire district, having crumbled to bits and been long since left out to dry by him and his family. It's the sentiments of the people he's supposed to represent, who he has now literally volunteered to represent. "It's the fact that we can spare whatever we need to keep me safe, get me whatever I need, but the people that we worked hard to get to represent receive nothing."

Stuart seems caught, so he shakes his head as a refusal. "Don't change the subject. This isn't the time or the forum for this debate. This is about you throwing away everything we've worked for. Everything we did to keep you safe."

"I know." Farkle steps closer, earnest coloring his voice. "I know how hard you tried to protect me from this. From everything. And it worked, for a while. But what about all the other boys my age out there who don't get that luxury? What about the boys younger than me? We get to go through the Reaping every year not really thinking much of it, but they have to live with the actual weight of it. And even if they don't get chosen, if they don't have to go to the Games, they have to live with that mortality every day while they starve and work their fingers to the bone to get by."

Stuart hesitates. "We worked hard for what we have."

"I know. But so do they. And they have nothing to show for it. And that's on you." Farkle takes a deep breath. "That's on us. What good is having money if we don't do anything with it?"

For a moment suspended in time, he can see the expression shift in his father's face. He can see realization ripple through his features and thinks maybe, potentially, he's gotten to him. He's done his part to change the status quo in the only way he knew how—for Santiago Smackle. For everyone else.

And now, that part is over. All that's left is everything else he volunteered for in the process.

This reality seems to be hitting Stuart as well. His lip trembles, and his head shakes again, this time from incredulity.

Farkle frowns. The anger has receded, and once again he's out of words. Instead, he steps forward and offers an embrace that his father eagerly takes.

They stand there in the quiet, holding one another and absorbing the truth of what's about to come next. Stuart's grip on his son is tighter than it's ever been before. "We did everything we did to protect you. Thinking of you."

Farkle feels tears prick the corners of his eyes but he bites them back, chewing on the inside of his cheek and willing himself to remove the emotions from the equation. Just as emotion has no place in technology, he doubts it'll have much of a place in the arena.

"I know," he finally manages, pulling back so he can look his father in the eyes. "Now, I need you to think of them, too."

The door opens again, and a Peacekeeper enters the space. "Visitation time's up."

Stuart doesn't put a fight. He gives his son one last shoulder squeeze before he's whisked away, the doors slamming heavily behind him as Farkle is once again left alone in the silence and the weight of what happens next.

* * *

The first time he's allowed to see other people is to reconvene with their mentors, a few minutes after the train pulls out of the district.

Despite his goal to be unimpressed as he scoots closer and closer into the Capitol's lap like some kind of show dog, he can't hide his fascination at how fast the train moves. The world outside the window seems to be passing by in lightyears, nothing but a blur of greys and greens. It's another advancement he's more than certain his district is responsible for, the work the great minds of his home discovered and handed over to the Capitol when the time came.

More names, brilliant brains, that will go to bed hungry and die with nothing to their legacy. More and more, it seems like the only way to get recognition is to do as he is, willingly throw yourself up to the Games as a some kind of sick sacrifice.

He's torn from his own head as the door to his car slides open, the release of air being the only indication.

Jack Hunter is more familiar to him than he thinks he'll ever realize. Whereas he's just another pale, youthful face he's sending off to his death, to him Jack has always been a symbol for what could be. The potential of their district, the youngest and freshest at those yearly soirees. He's represented something to Farkle for as long as he can remember, even if he can't exactly pinpoint what it is.

"There he is," Jack says brightly, offering a well-rehearsed smile as he approaches. He holds out a hand. "Farkle Minkus."

He accepts the hand shake without much hesitation. "And you're Jack Hunter."

"That I am. I'm sure we've seen each other once or twice around the bend. All those galas your father liked to throw." He speaks of it with the same slightly flat tone as Farkle—begrudgingly appreciative, knowing how lucky he is to be alive and privileged enough to attend. "Unfortunately, the time we'll be sharing from here on out won't be nearly as festive."

"Suppose it wouldn't be, raising a pig for slaughter."

Jack's eyes twinkle with amusement at Farkle's blasé attitude. "Typically, yes. But I think we've got a little more of a shot this year. Wouldn't you agree?"

At his eyebrow raise, Farkle realizes that Jack isn't planning to simply throw in the towel. That twinkle indicates that for once, Jack has an actual contender to train. For whatever reason, he sees in him that same spark of potential that he recognized in Rachel. The one he saw in Isadora that he's determined to see through to the end.

"Maybe so. Think we've got a couple of strong contenders from 3 this year."

Jack nods his head slowly. "Yeah. I was wondering about her. About your willingness to jump at a moment's notice to volunteer—I mean, your father never mentioned you expressing an interest—,"

Their conversation grinds to a halt as the door effortlessly glides open behind Jack, once again adding members to their elite club of passengers. Rachel emerges from the doorway and offers her partner a smile, Isadora floating in dazedly behind her.

It's as if he's seeing her for the first time. Having been so caught up in the chaos back at the Reaping ceremony, this time he can actually focus on her, see her clearly with his usual amount of attentiveness. She's wearing her soft grey cardigan over her dress, arguably her nicest one in her dusty set. Amazingly, it's unwrinkled. Her hair is still pulled back in the messy braid, that silver ribbon weaving throughout.

Her glasses have slipped a bit down her nose as usual, but he can still see her eyes meet his the moment she looks away from the windows. Instantly, the confusion fades from her features. It's as if clarity descends upon her the moment they lock eyes. He'd be lying if he claimed he didn't feel the same way.

He moves past Jack and steps towards her, meeting her halfway in the middle of the room. He's trying to think of what to say. Anything. Whatever would perfectly sum up how it feels to be trapped in these circumstances—but not so bad, because he's with her.

Instead, he's greeted with another shock as Isadora's foot comes stomping down on top of his, grinding her heel in the process.

"Ow! Holy—!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Jack begins, stepping forward.

Rachel's at Isadora's arm the moment she opens her mouth, frowning at Farkle with that extra special fire in her eyes.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she snaps, tugging away from Rachel's grasp. "Why the hell would you volunteer? You idiot!"

"Are you kidding me?" Farkle blinks at her, feeling his own anger bubble just under the surface of his calm demeanor. "Why wouldn't I? Certainly I have less to lose than the rest of you. And if I can help your chances—,"

"I didn't _ask_ you to do that!" Her voice is trembling, just like his mother. But her emotion is clearly coming from a different place. "Just like I didn't ask for your money, or your pity charity."

"It's not pity—!"

"You surmised that the best way to do what you could for the district was to throw yourself into a bloodbath like some kind of martyr. And they'll all remember you fondly because the beautiful, entitled mayor's son went out to make some deep, philosophical point." She shakes her head. "This is the Games, Farkle. The Capitol doesn't care about your vendetta, and neither does anyone else."

He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't think he has anything he could say to salvage this moment and his intentions.

"For the resident genius, you sure are senseless," she seethes. Then, she composes herself, taking a deep breath and turning to face her mentor instead. "I want nothing to do with my fellow district tribute. If possible, I'd prefer for all our training to be done separately."

"Well that's not exactly how we—,"

"Isadora—," Farkle starts.

She turns her glare on him, shutting him up. She looks him over once last time. "We don't have anything left to say to one another."

Then she turns on her heel, heading calmly back towards the car door with her fists still clenched tightly at her sides. Rachel gives Jack a confused, apologetic look before following after her, leaving them alone again once more.

"I definitely wasn't expecting..." Jack starts, searching for the right words to alleviate the tension in the room. "Sorry about that."

For a second, Jack's hand brushes Farkle's shoulder. Offering sympathy. But he shakes it off before the emotion can really settle in.

"It's fine," Farkle says through grit teeth. "I'd just like a moment alone, if that's acceptable."

Jack backs off amicably, raising his hands in surrender. He heads towards the door. "I'll be waiting in the dining car when you're ready to start strategizing."

Farkle spends a few minutes in silence, letting his mind go quiet by focusing his attention out the window. He makes a game of attempting to focus on trees within the speeding green blur until he starts to feel sick, ambling over to one of the armchairs and collapsing into it.

In the briefest of moments, he feels the same tidal wave of emotions building up from the base of his spine. Only this time, it's not the anger of others. It's his own, and it's distinctly miserable rather than resentful. All at once, all the things he's given up and left behind creep up on him and leave him hollow, wondering if Isadora is right. He's far more senseless than he is bright.

He shuts those feelings down as quickly as they start, forcing his mind to concentrate on something else. Something productive, a puzzle he can solve.

Considering his initial reason for making these decisions has effectively iced him out, he's going to have to formulate a new game plan. He's still going to play for Isadora, that's not changing—but he'll need a new angle. He can't operate on her alone or he'll lose his mind.

 _Some kind of martyr._

Isadora's accusation haunts him and continues to sting, but he wonders if maybe there's some truth to her statement. He left his district hoping that his bold move would make his father reconsider some things—maybe there's a way for him to continue pushing the envelope. There are far more people who are far more important with far more power in the Capitol, and they'll be forced to watch him for the next indeterminate number of days.

Maybe he can make them reconsider some things too.

Emotion floods him again, but this is a kind he hasn't felt in a long time. He hasn't felt it since he first decided to play Robin Hood and start putting some of those injustices to rest. There's a rush, the feeling of donning that black cloak and playing hero—but there's another feeling there too. Something more honorable, more deserving of martyrdom. The spark of potentially making a difference in a place where it seems absolutely futile.

Hope.

* * *

"No physical altercations during training—there will be plenty of time for that in the arena."

Farkle half-listens as the Capitol trainer rattles off a list of rules for them to follow while they're confined to the training room for a set amount of hours for the next week. He notices the empty tone to her voice, bored and uninterested in yet another crop of scrawny, underfed kids from the districts who are going to maul each other to death in a little less than a fortnight.

Just another year of routine.

Rather than paying attention to the extensive and ironic no-violence policy that he's fairly certain is only for the benefit of the Career districts, Farkle takes time to carefully examine the other tributes while they're in such controlled close quarters. They're assembled by district in a large circle—he can practically feel the nervous energy off the girl from 5 next to him.

Isadora is on his other side, but true to her word she's doing an extraordinary job of ignoring him. She pays careful attention to the speaker. Farkle can't help but notice how many of the tributes—including him—tower over her in height. She's always been petite, but this is an entirely new ballpark.

Across the circle, the lithe, Black boy from 6 leans over and whispers something in his partner's ear. She chuckles, tossing her dark curls over her shoulder as she elbows him lightly in the ribs. In some ways, it's reminiscent of Jack and Rachel—a moment of reassurance in a decidedly uncomfortable situation between old friends.

Despite their seemingly cool assurance and ability to kid around with one another, Farkle has a hard time seeing either of them as a threat. They're both middle of the pack size wise, and if he's learned anything in the last few years of watching Games, it's that the jokesters never win. You want them to, you're always rooting for them, but they never do. More than likely, their vibrant personality that caught your attention at the interviews is dead in the ground before the first night is over.

It's unfortunate, looking at a fellow tribute and feeling as though you can see their fate written all over their face. He forces himself to look away.

No, the real threats are always the larger ones. The Goliath from 2 is an obvious danger, with his impressive stature and obvious age advantage. The Careers who get Reaped at eighteen, the last eligible year, are always the ones out for blood. They've trained their entire adolescence, and the only way they're planning to leave the arena is with blood on their hands and a metaphorical victor crown on their head. This guy reeks of it, the vague smile on his face just a little too smug for Farkle's taste.

Although, size isn't always an indicator of strength. The little blonde next to him looks about as threatening, icy blue eyes and pretty smile twisted into a mischievous smirk.

Most of the other kids on the opposite side of the circle aren't too impressive, even the kids from 4 who are supposed to be just as prepared to win as the Careers these days. The guy, a brunette who Farkle suspects is going to get by solely by appealing to his looks, glares at him when they lock eyes.

Aside from the absolutely tiny boy from 12, the only other person who catches his attention is the boy from 10. He's built well, tall with broad shoulders and a healthier physique than most malnourished kids from the districts. It's obvious to Farkle that he's spent plenty of time doing manual labor without much trouble.

Much more than he has, at least.

He's attractive with his sandy hair, green eyes, and tanned complexion. A pretty face if he's ever seen one, but he has to wonder if there's anything underneath. He'll get some favor from sponsors, undoubtedly. He doesn't carry the same malice in his expression as the Careers, but there's something about the melancholy in his expression that makes Farkle wary.

He makes a mental note to avoid the Face from District 10.

Even after they're dismissed for break-out training, Isadora continues to isolate him. She drifts one way and he decides to let her go, heading towards the other end of the facility.

For the first day, he chews his way through all of the practical training elements—camouflage, knot-tying, plant identification. At night, Jack grills him on survival strategies and helps him brainstorm devices he can create regardless of the materials he's given: traps, trip-wires, anything that'll give him a distinct advantage.

"You're from the technology district, you're the resident genius for crying out loud," Jack states as they're drafting schematics in the suite. "This is the greatest advantage you could ever get, and you're going to use it."

It's what he's thinking about during the second day, as most people are shifting their strategies and trying out stations they haven't before. Many of the scrappy kids from the middle districts have finally worked up the courage to approach the weapons stand—too little, too late, Farkle surmises. The best strategy at this point is to stay invisible, and focus on honing his strengths.

He's camped out at the snares station, being more innovative with the materials than he supposes the expert manning the station would like. She continues to shoot him glares, and whenever she offers to guide him back towards the basic snares they've got on display, he ignores her until she gives up.

Otherwise, he keeps his eye on Isadora across the gym, where she's practicing fire-making with a couple of boys from middle districts. They're from 7 and 8, and seem harmless enough. In some cases, Farkle figures her making alliances this early on will be for the best. More easy targets for people to hunt instead of her.

"That doesn't look like a snare," someone comments, drawing his attention away from his fellow tribute. Glancing up with a frown, he locks eyes with a tall, angular Black girl. She's got an impressive array of curls tied back into a bun to keep it out of her face, and a sharp expression as she sneers down at his project.

He casts a quick glance to the number stitched into her sleeve, marking her as the female from 11. He decides she's not a threat.

"That's because it isn't," he replies, focusing his gaze back on the series of wires tied together in front of him. After a moment, he smirks. "Not for animals, anyway."

There's a palpable beat of uncertainty between them as the girl gauges this answer—trying to determine whether he's worth forming a potential friendship with, or if he's just plain crazy. Farkle thinks he's probably a bit of both.

Finally, she drops down to her knees next to him, grabbing some materials and setting to work on her own snare. She glances at the expert, who isn't paying them any attention, before speaking again. "Sounds inventive. Living up to your District creed, then."

"It's the only thing we 3s can count on," he admits. Then, he offers her a hand. "Farkle."

She takes it. "Yindra. Are you looking for allies, or are you locked down with your district?"

Farkle hesitates, casting a glance over towards Isadora. Although he knows they have very different ideas of what alliance they're sharing going into the arena, he decides to go with her version of events. If he wants any chance of making his plan to help her work, he's going to have to keep it under wraps.

"Working alone, currently." He raises his eyebrows. "How about you?"

She nods in the direction of the ropes course. A couple of Careers watch as a tall but scrawny boy with a layer of baby fat still on his cheeks attempts to cross the course. He wiggles his legs frantically, just managing to hold on without falling. A close call. The Careers jeer behind him.

"That one's mine. His name is Dave. He's not the sharpest tool in the shed, but we figure sticking together is smarter than not."

"Have to say I concur," he says, attempting to leave the bitterness out of his tone. "Taking different approaches to the training, I see."

"I'm trying to get an even swath of skills under my belt, lest the terrain kill me rather than one of those Career goons," she says humorlessly, rolling her eyes in their direction. "But Dave's all about trying to buck up and tackle the physical stuff. I think he's trying to do the things that scare him. Because if he faces them now, they won't be so terrifying later. You know?"

Both of them jump as a whistle blows somewhere nearby, and a swarm of staff darts towards the spear station. Farkle sees them tearing the little blonde girl from 2 off another tribute who obviously not-so-delicately hit the ground moments earlier.

"I thought tributes weren't allowed to spar together," Yindra states, watching the chaos dissipate.

When the crowd thins, he recognizes the victim of Blondie's attack as the Face from 10. He looks far more intimidating in the aftermath of a defeat than he did standing in the circle earlier, scowling to himself as he shakes the staff off him and storms away.

If he's picking fights with Careers in the middle of training, Farkle figures he's making the right call to avoid him.

"They aren't," Farkle acknowledges, watching as the girl from 2 backs off with her hands raised in surrender, a sinister smirk on her lips as she heads back towards her pack.

* * *

The morning before interviews, Farkle eats quickly in the dining hall and avoids discussion of their training scores.

When Isadora's score of 6 came in, their entire team was thrilled. It's a perfectly acceptable score—it shows the sponsors that you're capable, you're worth backing with a shot of surviving, but the other tributes won't throw too much energy towards your destruction. She can gain notice and fly under the radar simultaneously, which according to Rachel's glee, seems to be exactly what they're going for.

Farkle's score of 11 garnered different results. Stunned joy from most of the team, the usual praise and compliments of his brilliance, in whatever capacity that may be. But Jack's moment of hesitation before he offered congratulations spoke volumes.

He's painted himself as a threat, and they both know it. If the Careers weren't paying him any mind before, they definitely are now.

Thankfully, that's exactly how he wanted it. All targets on his back, none left for Isadora.

He feels the ramifications of it the very next morning, when the petite blonde with the sinister smirk finds her way to his table as he eats alone. She taps her nails on the wood, placing a hand on her hip as she waits for him to meet her eyes.

He does, without offering a greeting. She doesn't seem to be expecting one.

"An 11," she says, before exhaling a breathy laugh. "Gotta say, wasn't expecting that to follow so quickly after us. Maybe from that doughy cowboy from 10, but he choked instead."

He holds her gaze as she leans forward, getting a closer look at him. He has to admit that under different circumstances, in a different world, she'd be someone he'd be interested in getting to know. She's got spunk, and he's always found a bit of fascination in spunk. But it's hard to appreciate how appealing those blue eyes are when they're broadcasting so much malice.

"So how'd you do it, little rich boy. Huh? Did daddy pull some strings and buy you that score?"

Farkle licks his lips, finding it surprisingly easy to maintain his calm. He's skilled at pushing back emotions that aren't beneficial to whatever his current goal is, and he's certain anger is exactly what she wants from him. So he doesn't have any to give to her.

"I don't know. I suppose I don't feel the need to show off all my potential to anyone who's looking." He takes a bite of his oatmeal, chewing it thoughtfully as she absorbs his words. "That's what they teach you in District 2, right? How to be a show pony? Right down to the slaughterhouse."

Although she's having trouble getting a rise out of him, she's easy to rile up. She slams her hands down on the table, anger blazing through her. But what catches his attention more so is the moment of vulnerability he sees flash through her features. "Shut up. You don't know me. You don't know my district."

In the next moment, another Career approaches—the polished girl from 1, Farkle notes—and pulls her back by the arm. "Come on, Maya. He's not worth it. Save it for the arena."

Farkle watches them go, Maya shooting daggers at him with her eyes that he figures may one day soon become real ones. But she revealed far more in that brief interaction than he did. For all her bravado and brutishness, he has to wonder if Maya from District 2 is more broken than she looks.

"Wow, they just slid right off you," an upbeat voice says, before a couple of tributes slide into the seats across from him. The one speaking is Dave, who was dangling from the ropes a couple days earlier. When he's not concentrating so hard, he appears rather cheery. "If you can make that happen in the arena, you may very well survive this thing."

"Trust me, I doubt my luck will run that long."

"That's actually what we wanted to talk to you about," Yindra says, cutting right to the chase rather than humoring the frivolities. He has to appreciate that about her. "We're running out of days to talk under somewhat normal circumstances. I don't know if you have a strategy yet, but you know we're sticking together and we wanted to extend the invitation to you, too."

"Our mentors told us not to make too many friends, but three isn't too much of a crowd, right?" Dave raises his eyebrows. "So what do you say?"

It's a bit strange to Farkle, how easily these kids form friendships and alliances without giving it much thought. Although he didn't go out of his way to make friends, they're here, offering him safety and greater chance of survival by working together. Statistically, the smart thing would be to say yes.

But he has his plans. He's had them since he volunteered to go on the stage. And he can't divert any of his energy into protecting other people when he's got enough of it to dedicate to someone else. He also knows that he can't in good conscience look these two in the eyes—good, well-intentioned people just like him who are offering a truce—and promise them allegiance when he knows, in a moment of crisis, he'd throw them under the bus if necessary.

"I don't think I can make such a proclamation so early on," he says quietly, and even though he's only known them a few days, his chest aches at the falling expressions on their faces. "But let me assure you this—however we cross paths in the arena, it won't make for a bloody ending. If either of you fall, it won't be by my hand." He raises his eyebrow, offering a hand. "Deal?"

Yindra and Dave exchange a look, before reaching out and taking turns to shake his hand. Considering his brutal reputation with his score of 11, they probably think they're making a smart decision.

"Deal."

"May the odds be ever in your favor," Dave says mockingly, but the sentiment behind the words is true. He means them.

Farkle nods, offering a smile as he gets to his feet. As he turns to leave, he finds himself running into someone and nearly knocking them over. He barely manages to grab their arms and stabilize them before they topple to the floor.

"Thank you. Ow, that was—I'm so sorry."

The girl in front of him is bright-eyed and brunette, looking genuinely apologetic for their collision. He recognizes her as the girl from District 9—another mayor's child, only here by fate rather than choice. Even from one look she's one of the sweetest, prettiest girls he's ever met. Part of him feels like, in another life, he would've loved to be her friend.

"Sorry," she says again. She gives him a small smile and grasps his wrist lightly, a warm gesture that feels starkly out of place in the cold, manufactured world of the Capitol. "Thanks."

A second later she's passing him, wandering over to join a couple other tributes at a nearby table. Farkle watches her go, thinking about all the genuinely good-hearted people that have ended up in this Games with him. Honest and well-intentioned, like Yindra and Dave. Sweet-faced and warm, like her.

His lingering look in her direction leaves him thinking there's absolutely no way she's going to make it out of this alive. Her warmth is exactly the kind of heat the Capitol likes to snuff out.

Without looking back, he makes his way out of the dining hall and back towards the suite.

* * *

For all intents and purposes, Farkle thinks his interview couldn't have gone better.

His mentors disagree, Jack absolutely bananas over the fact that he was spewing so much questionable content and anti-Capitol rhetoric. Farkle claims he was merely pointing out facts of the reality of life in the districts, and maybe the Capitol residents would like to hear about it. Besides, Caesar was humoring it, so how is he to blame?

Jack leaves him that night frustrated and exhausted with Farkle's seemingly cold resignation to painting as many targets on his back as he can. Although he wishes he could reassure him, he doesn't have anything to offer.

Aside from the political rhetoric, the interview went fine as far as he can tell. He talked about his childhood and his family, and Caesar latched onto the term "resident genius" like a kid in a candy shop. He looked more polished than he ever has, so he figures his father must be proud.

Best of all, Isadora didn't do half-bad at her interview either. He was worried about her, considering her own affinity for avoiding social interaction, but she made it through without any major bumps. She was cool and collected, and projected an air of quiet confidence that Farkle knows must be attractive to some sponsors out there.

If he were a donor, he'd be pouring all her money into her.

It served as a good last minute reminder, too, as to why he's doing this. Why he ended up here in the first place, aside from the politics and the petulance and the games. Because there's something about Isadora Smackle that is really special, worth saving. Worth making sure she can get back to their district and continue sharing it with the world.

He knows he likes to act as though he's the martyr in all of this, but if anybody will actually change the world, it'll be her. Without a fraction of a doubt.

She surprises him yet again with her presence the night before they're set to go into the arena, finding him crouched on the windowsill overlooking the festivities in the city center below. She looks out of sorts in the fancy, lush night clothes of the Capitol, but her glasses are still sitting a tad down her nose so he knows she's the same as she's always been.

She gestures to the sill, at the empty space across from him. "Do you mind?"

"By all means," he says cordially, looking out the window again as she settles in parallel to him. She wraps her arms around her knees, squinting at the bustling party down below them.

"Funny, how they find such merriment in all of this."

"Not so unbelievable," Farkle says with a shrug. He turns to look at her again. "My father was the same way."

He finds himself fixated with how the colors of the city and celebration reflect in her eyes. Bits of color twinkle in the lens of her glasses, which she restlessly pushes back up her nose.

"Are you going to wear those in the arena?"

"Oh, no," she says offhandedly, and he feels a sense of relief that she won't be bogged down with constantly adjusting them throughout the Games. Or worrying that they'll break. "I've been given a corrective procedure so I actually no longer need them. It's silly for me to wear them now, but they're a comfort. Allows me to still feel like me, I suppose."

He can understand that. With the way he was so neatly combed for the interview, it was a bit like coming home when he fussed up his hair in front of the mirror until it fell flatly over his eyebrows again. His hair has never done much, but now he's grateful for it. It feels like him, reliably so.

"I wanted to apologize," she says suddenly, breaking the silence with a light sense of urgency. "For how I behaved on the train. And since then. Shutting you out and everything."

He shrugs. "It's okay. I didn't mind much."

"I did not… I was not sure how to comprehend what had happened. And with being Reaped and all, you volunteering yourself into the gauntlet as well just seemed like cruel punishment." She exhales, obviously trying to find the right words. "I didn't mean any of what I said on the train. Accusing you of playing martyr and all those things."

"Well, I can't say you're entirely wrong," he admits. "There was likely some truth to it all."

"I did notice the rather aggressive content of your interview." She examines him curiously, an expression he's always been fond of in her features. "You do realize uttering such rhetoric isn't going to help your chances, correct? At least confirm that you're saying all these things with an acute awareness of how it may play out against you."

For all her distance and cool façade, it's somewhat pleasing to know that she was thinking of him all this time. Albeit with worry. He offers her a smile. "Yes. I'm aware. It's intentional."

"Good. I'm glad your foolishness is at least premeditated."

He can't help but laugh, nodding to acknowledge the zaniness of his strategy. Once their laughter has died down, he examines her more carefully. "Are you prepared for tomorrow? Alliances sorted?"

"No alliances, quite yet."

"I saw you talking with those boys from 7 and 8 fairly frequently," he notes.

"Oh, Jeff and Nigel," she says thoughtfully. Then, she nods. "Yes, they were very nice. I certainly don't want to write their obituaries, but I'm not sure if they'd be the most strategic people to align with. Kindness doesn't equate survival."

It surprises Farkle how cold and calculating Isadora is, but then he knows he shouldn't find it so shocking. She's a woman of science, and it's only intelligent to find the most efficient and resourceful route to survival. And Isadora Smackle has always been the most intelligent person in his life.

"I don't believe it would be prudent for us to align together either," she says, voice barely above a murmur. Her eyes are downcast to the windowsill between their feet. "There are too many unpredictable factors. Too many irregularities. I would hate for that to distract us and end both our games prematurely."

He knows what she means by irregularities. Emotions. Things neither of them are prepared to deal with. Perhaps if they had both stayed in the district, and grown old together, they would have been able to learn how to deal with them. They could have experimented and explored together, so they weren't so daunting anymore.

But the odds weren't in their favor. So they'll have to adjust.

Farkle reaches forward and gently pushes her glasses back up her nose from where they've predictably slid down a couple centimeters. She raises her eyes to look at him, anxious and uncertain as to what's going to happen next.

"I concur," he says softly, leaning back against the window frame and returning his hands to his knees. "Care to theorize about how these games will turn out?"

"Think I'm better off not," she admits, nerves causing a small tremor in her voice. She wrings her fingers together in her lap. "Putting too much or too little stake in how I predict things will turn out could end up hurting me in the long run. I believe it's smartest to let my chances speak for themselves. I'd rather not hear how unlikely a victory and return home for me will be."

He examines her, wondering if she has any idea how determined he is. How sure he is that no matter what happens to everyone else, she'll be going home. How he's basing his entire strategy around it, and how that fire in her eyes that he saw in Rachel, that Jack sees in him, is going to be what gets her home.

He could assure her all this. Instead, he smirks, shaking his head.

"All that modesty."

* * *

The aircraft ride to the arena is virtually silent save for the rumbling of the engines. Even tributes with lots to say, like Dave with his bubbly attitude or Maya with all her cheek, have nothing to add.

They're separated once they land, being sent to different rooms to check in with their mentors one final time before entering the arena. Entering their home for the next few days, however long they last, however dangerous it turns out to be.

Isadora seated across from him in the aircraft is the last time he sees her before the arena. He can't bring himself to look at her when they part ways after they land.

He's gearing himself up for departure when Jack finally enters the room. He's not sure what to expect from him. A berating, potentially. More flack for being such a bullish mentee and wasting his potential as a tribute and a mayor's son. Maybe both.

Once again, he reads the situation wrong. Because Jack surprises him instead with a tight hug, gripping his shoulders and jolting him a bit to shake off the daze.

"Fear gets to you whether you feel it or not," he says wisely, bumping Farkle one more time on the shoulder. "Wish someone had come and given me a quick shake before heading out there when it was my time to go."

"Thanks."

"You're the resident genius," Jack reminds him, examining him critically. "You remember everything we talked about. All those strategies. Who to avoid and who to spare. You remember all your training."

"I do. I will."

Despite the confidence in Farkle's tone, Jack can tell he's not being entirely transparent. That whatever motivation was haunting him back on the train the day of the Reaping is still with him, and no matter how many political controversies he stirs up, he's still here for the same reason with the same mission. Even at the cost of his own survival.

"You know, I think it's good that Rachel and I weren't in the same Games," he says, changing tact and addressing the topic head on.

Farkle raises his eyebrows. "You don't say?"

"Yeah. I mean, we wouldn't have known each other then or anything. But there's something about her. And I have to think that if we had been in the same Games, and I had gotten to know her then, things would've turned out very differently for me." When Farkle doesn't comment, he continues on pointedly. "I think I may have sacrificed my own game for hers. Which, objectively, wouldn't have been a very smart move."

"Sure the viewers would've loved it though," Farkle says sarcastically, smirking slightly and raising his eyebrows. "Nothing more noble a cause than love, is there?"

"I need you to hear me, Farkle," Jack says, gripping his shoulders again. It's tight to the point of pain, but Farkle doesn't shy away. He grits his teeth and meets his eyes so he knows he's listening. "It would have meant sacrificing my game for hers. Regardless of how noble it would be, it wouldn't have been smart. And I wouldn't be here, talking to you."

The overhead speaker crackles, speaking in a pleasantly robotic tone. "30 seconds."

Farkle blinks. "And?"

"Just," Jack starts, losing his momentum and sighing. When he locks eyes with him again, the resolve is underpinned with a bit of resignation of his own. "Don't do anything stupid, Farkle."

"15 seconds."

"Can't, Jack." Farkle manages a smile. "I'm a genius."

Before he can hear another warning call from the speaker, Farkle heads towards the tube with Jack right on his heels. When he steps inside the cylinder and turns to face his mentor, he offers him another brave smile with a hint of an apology. Condolences for not being a better tribute—one he could root for. One he could actually guide to win.

As the tube around him slides shut and he begins his ascent into the ground towards the arena above him, he steels his resolve. Removes all emotions from the equation. The smile melts off his face and all that's left is sheer determination, etched in those features his father so proudly claimed were the features of a winner.

When the cannon sounds and the Games begin, Farkle is certain that only one tribute will be leaving the arena alive.

And if his money is placed right—and with his family, it always is—it won't be him.

* * *

 **A/N:** Okay hello again, aside from asking for the usual faves / comments, etc., I also wanted to ask y'all for some opinions on how to continue the story format wise! As you probably figured out, each installment per character has two parts - pre-arena and Games. Would you all want to read them by character (Farkle Pt. & Farkle Pt. 2 in order, for instance) or by part (so all of the pre-arenas at once and then all the Game content)? If you have an opinion, let me know!

Also, check the bonus chapter for the listing of the tributes and other relevant info which may or may not be updated now and then. :)


	2. Lucas Friar, Animal Whisperer -- Part 1

Lucas Friar has always been good at one thing—survival.

To be fair, it's really all he's ever had to focus on. School was never a huge distraction, as education is more of an afterthought in District 10 than a priority. The social scene within the district is essentially non-existent, so it's not as though he has a ton of engagements to look forward to, and you'd need to be alive to enjoy them anyway. Family is a greater contributor to his skills than nearly anything else: not only is he scraping by on his own without much help from them, he's practically pulling them along with him.

In that way, he supposes that's where he excels. Sure, keeping himself alive and functional is a concern, but he's become particularly skilled at making sure others don't collapse around him.

Lucas isn't just a survivalist, he's a master of the craft. And a true master doesn't let anyone else fall prey to the forces he's supposed to be able to thwart.

To his credit, this trait extends to more than just people. And that, he knows, is what's really keeping him alive.

Lucas concentrates hard as he examines the muzzle of the large canine in front of him, laying pathetically on the back porch. He's crouched on the steps so they're matching eye level, holding his breath to keep his hands from shaking as he pokes and prods.

Behind the hound and sweating in the summer heat, Hugh Miller wipes his brow impatiently. "He dying or what?"

"Hush, papa," Sophie chides. "Let him work."

Lucas can feel her eyes on him, waiting expectantly. He can feel the tension from Miller's frustration as he hears him cross his arms, sighing pointedly. He feels dwarfed by the ranch house looming over him, casting a shadow to shield him from the sun.

He tries not to think about it. All he allows himself to focus on is the task in front of him and keeping his hands steady.

As his fingers graze the back row of teeth the canine growls, weak but still fully capable of warning. Sophie and her father stiffen, waiting to see what he does next.

"Easy, buddy," Lucas exhales, tentatively touching the sensitive tooth again. There's a patch of enamel that's softer than the rest, and from the way the hound is reacting to it he can tell that's got to be the source of the problem.

Tooth decay. Nothing he hasn't seen before.

"It's okay, Marmalade," Sophie assures the dog, clasping her hands together in front of her. Lucas can't help but smirk as he searches his pack for his tool kit, ruminating over the silly name. It's strange, having someone refer to an animal in such a fond, familiar way.

Then, he supposes, that's privilege. Most of the animals he's called in to help are products, not pets. Either that or workers, like the sheepdog that herds the cattle for the Rands.

Never companions with pastry spread for a name, in any case.

"Alright, buddy," Lucas continues in a whisper, attempting to keep his focus between him and the dog. He opens up the small leather wrap on the porch step and retrieves a pair of bronze pliers, worn but still in working condition. "It's gonna stop hurting soon. I promise."

He allows himself a few moments to calm his nerves, rubbing Marmalade on the nose and adjusting the pliers in his fingers. Miller watches suspiciously, recrossing his arms and shuffling uneasily on his feet.

"Well, what're you gonna do with those—?"

Sophie shushes him again, focused on the dog with rapt interest.

Lucas gently coerces Marmalade to open his mouth, proceeding with caution until he can find the diseased tooth again. To keep the calm—for the canine or himself, he's not sure—he starts humming a tune. It's the same one he always comes back to, some silly rhyme they learned in the early years of school that's quick to get stuck in your head.

"Easy," he says softly, almost as a reminder to himself. Marmalade's sedated enough at the moment, but Lucas has been on the other side of enough animal bites to know how quickly that could change. For how good he is at survival, he knows realistically he's lucky he wasn't already killed by rabies.

Marmalade whines uncertainly as the pliers close gently around the rotten tooth. The Millers are holding their breath. Lucas feels a bead of sweat drip down his neck, daring him to take the time to wipe it away.

In a second he yanks sharply on the pliers, removing the fang in one swift maneuver.

Lucas reels back a bit as Marmalade howls in protest, barking in annoyance but far too malnourished to do anything about it. Sophie swoops down to kneel beside the dog, speaking to it in soothing tones while her father storms forward behind her.

"Well, what happened there?" he demands as Lucas reaches into his bag and pulls out a small ream of gauze. He tears a piece off with his teeth, leaning forward next to Sophie and focusing on situating the pad within Marmalade's bite. "You did something there, didn't ya?"

Lucas nods, reaching down to pick up the pliers from the wooden stairs. He unclasps them and allows the extracted tooth to fall into his palm, turning it over in his fingers and holding it up for Miller to see.

It's a sore sight to behold, tartar build up dusting it brown and blackened near the root. A jagged edge along the bottom indicates far greater damage that precluded the decay.

"Must've been cracked," Lucas explains breathlessly, pointing with his pinky finger at the rough edge. "And the damage allowed for greater buildup against the enamel."

Miller gives him an inquisitive look, evidently lost. Sophie listens curiously.

Lucas opts for the simplest approach. "This is the reason your pup's not eating. Hard to, when you're in this much pain."

Sophie sighs in relief, petting Marmalade and keeping her attention focused on him. Miller takes the tooth from Lucas's fingers, examining it in his own.

"Well, I'll be." He meets his eyes, offering the first smile he's given since he walked up the porch steps almost half an hour ago. "Guess we better get you paid up, then."

Miller gestures for Lucas to follow him inside, barely giving him time to gather his things off the porch. Sophie smiles as he frantically stuffs his tool kit in his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. "Thanks for helping. I know we weren't exactly a call you wanted to get about your… specialty."

Lucas hesitates, shrugging as he climbs to his feet. "Long as it pays, right?"

"They were right about you, you know. The rumors were true," she adds, scratching Marmalade behind the ears. After a moment she glances up at him, getting a good look before offering another smile. "All the rumors."

He isn't sure what to do with this compliment, but he figures trying to keep a low profile is a good enough reason to run from the conversation. "Well, I should be—,"

"Right. Of course. Thanks again."

Lucas nods, shouldering his bag more securely before slipping into the house after Miller.

It takes him a bit to navigate his way through the space. It's larger than any house he's ever stepped foot in, and dwarfs all the other dwellings in 10 by comparison. He shouldn't be surprised, considering it's the mayoral estate, but he would be kidding himself if he said he ever expected to step inside it.

Maybe, perhaps, as a corpse on a return stop from a losing Hunger Games. But he's been lucky enough to avoid such a scenario thus far.

He finds Mayor Miller in the sun room, a spacious lounge with screen walls looking out towards the farmland beyond. If he squints, Lucas can just make out the Garcia's dwelling, marking where the rest of the town begins beyond the hillside. Between here and there, it's stretches of grass and cattle grounds.

"Let's see, let's see," Miller huffs, settling down on the beat up couch and laying some cash on the table in front of him. "Hefty sum you charge, huh?"

Lucas shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Depends on the customer."

"Don't say!" Miller lets out a hearty laugh, nodding along graciously. "I suppose that's fair. And of course, there's the little privacy settlement we agreed upon. No one has to know we know about your services—,"

"And no one has to know you requested them," Lucas finishes, nodding in agreement.

It feels a little silly, the way his aid is talked about in hushed tones around town as if it's some sort of criminal act. In reality, he knows it is, as he's not licensed to be offering medical care to anyone or anything, and there's absolutely no legal forum for him to be getting paid to do so—currency or otherwise. But he still can't help but find amusement in the way it's discussed, as if he's one of the frothy men and maids from the underside of town.

Although the alternative is likely Peacekeeper punishment and imprisonment. So he supposes he should settle for the questionable tone and kinship with the brothel. Besides, he respects them in any case—everybody has to make a living somehow.

"I'm mighty impressed Marmalade didn't go and rip your hand off when you pulled that sucker out of there. It's true what they say about you, huh?" Mayor Miller gives him a cheeky smile, wiggling his eyebrows. "Animal whisperer, and all that."

Lucas shrugs, offering a bashful smile. "As long as it counts for good publicity, sir."

"I'll admit, I didn't believe what I was hearing," he continues, laying down bills and coins as he counts them out. "I mean, some dusty kid from the middle of the district doing miracle work with the herds? Sounded like a new folktale or something to me. But it was a damn persistent folktale, and I suppose it came through when we needed it to."

Miller finishes stacking the payment into a neat pile. Lucas has a hard time tearing his eyes away from it. It's more money together in one handful than he's ever seen in his life, and it stings a bit to acknowledge the fact that it's all coming from one man's pocket.

"Truth be told, it gets me outta fair bit of trouble with my daughter, there, too." He puts a hand up to shield his mouth, indicating secrecy. "I gave ol' Marmalade a chew toy that may have been a little too harsh on the teeth. But what else was I going to do with that old firewood?"

Lucas can think of a million and one things he could do with spare firewood. But he decides the question was likely rhetorical. "Well, glad I was able to be of assistance, sir."

"That you were, my boy. That you were." He rises to his feet with a grunt, hobbling over and handing Lucas the agreed upon payment. It's hidden away in a burlap pouch, the weight of it heavy in his palm. "Say, how old did you say you were again?"

"Seventeen, sir."

Miller hums thoughtfully, nodding as he strokes his chin. Lucas immediately stores the pouch in his pack, stowing it safely away. "I was going to say shame, but then you've already survived four of the roughest years, haven't you? If the reaper hasn't grabbed you by this point, you aren't likely to go in the next couple years."

Lucas feels a lump form in the back of his throat at the very thought of what's coming around the bend in the next couple days. He manages a half-hearted smile, mentally shoving away all the facts that immediately jump to mind that could disprove Mayor Miller's statement. "Let's hope the odds are in my favor."

"Oh, there you go! I love that expression."

Mayor Miller heads to the back porch to send Lucas off, Sophie joining him to wish him luck. He returns the notion and relays instructions for how to care for Marmalade until the mouth wound heals, rushing through the directions in an effort to get away as fast as possible. He's got plenty of errands to run, and not a lot of time.

When the Reaping comes around, he always feels a little like he's running out of time.

* * *

No stranger to the Hub, Lucas is greeted by familiar patrons as he walks through the door with his pack.

Many of the people around know him just as a friendly face around town, but the few most friendly to him are those who have asked for him personally. The reputation he built as an animal healer didn't come out of nothing, and the people who know him for it are seemingly eternally grateful. He's not sure he deserves all the gratitude, but Lucas can't deny it's nice to feel appreciated when he enters the room.

He approaches the counter of Geralyn, one of the Hub's oldest and most famous shopkeepers. She's been there longer than Lucas has been alive and although he doesn't know how, he knows she's got the entire food production pulse of the district under her fingertips. It can't be legal, but then, nothing in the Hub is, including him. Not to mention he benefits from it far too much to question it.

"Golden boy Friar," she says cheerfully as he approaches, eliciting a grin from him that she instantly mirrors. "Been a hot minute since we last saw one another. What're you here for today? Cup of my infamous mash to go?"

Lucas shakes his head, dropping his bag on the counter to fish for the mayoral pouch. "Little more than that today, G. I'm here to buy in bulk."

He dumps the contents of the pouch onto the counter, spreading out the currency so he can get a good look himself. The clattering of the coins draws the attention of other customers, surprised by the unfamiliar sound.

Geralyn whistles, raising her eyebrows. She shakes her head. "I know I'd better not ask. But I have to wonder where you come across all this bread every time you come by."

"Magician doesn't reveal his secrets," Lucas jokes, offering her a grin.

"Magician!" She laughs. "Sure thing, animal whisperer. But I don't know, I just don't think it's right. Strapping boy like you, you should be out there soaking up the sun. Working with the cattle, flirting with the pretty girls in your class. Not working rogue operations with your hand stuck down a cow's throat."

"Worse places it could be."

She gives him a look, clicking her tongue. Lucas hands over his list, Geralyn examining it thoroughly before getting to work to round it all up.

While he waits, Lucas takes a breather and observes the fellow patrons of the Hub. He can't help but note how he is one of the youngest people in the room, mostly surrounded by adults at least ten years his senior. It's rare to find his classmates outside of school or off the clock as farmhands. It's somewhat of a shock to see them all assembled on Reaping Day and realize just how many of them there are.

"This is an awful lot of food," Geralyn comments as she slams the large hunk of meat on the wood. She gathers the other requested items on the countertop around it, flapping open a burlap sack to fill. "You sure this isn't going to spoil?"

"Guarantee. It's not all for me, believe me." Lucas gestures to the counter and Geralyn nods, allowing him to come around to the other side and help her prepare the package.

She glances at him, shaking her head again. Only this time there's melancholy shading her features. "As if you don't have enough on your plate. Not right."

"Maybe not, but it is what it is." He gives her a grateful smile and hefts the bulging sack of food over his shoulder. He can remember a time when this felt nearly impossible to carry—now it feels practically weightless. It's a testament, he supposes, to how practice builds strong muscles and time builds strong routine. "Thanks for everything, G."

"Off you go, pretty boy," she says affectionately, ruffling his hair before he heads back towards the front. "Best of luck tomorrow!"

"May the odds," Lucas says offhandedly, tossing her a wave. The expression is so ingrained in their culture, it hardly needs completing.

He takes a quick trip back to his dwelling, unsurprised to find it cold and empty when he kicks open the door. His mother is never home before the dairy factory closes, and it's a fool's bet to guess where his father is at any given time of day. But if he's being honest, he doesn't mind the emptiness.

In all honesty, he prefers the quiet. It's the only chance he has to get anything done.

Lucas methodically unloads his haul from the Hub, divvying up the contents into three portions. The smallest one he packs up in containers and tucks into the bottom of the burlap, overlaying the largest pile on top of it. With the remaining food he carefully arranges them into containers and disperses them throughout the kitchen, knowing exactly where each item goes better than he knows himself.

After all, time builds strong routine.

Lucas searches his bag for the pouch of money from Mayor Miller, emptying out the rest of it and dividing it into two portions. He tucks one half back in the pouch and takes the rest off the counter, heading around the side of the house to his bedroom.

It's less a place to call home and more a shack, the small pantry in the back of the house having been converted into a bedroom when desperate times called for desperate measures. It's a constant reminder of the well-known fact that his parents never anticipated having a child—and a monument to how great of a job they're doing in spite of it.

Reaching under his mattress, he pulls out a small picture frame and takes off the back, hiding the remaining currency underneath. It's a sizeable stash, and although he doesn't have any current plans for it, he knows it's smarter to have it than not.

He resents the fact that he has to hide it, but he's learned his lesson. One occurrence of his father suddenly having money for booze and Lucas finding his pockets empty for all his hard work was enough to send the message loud and clear.

Lucas waits one more minute to grab some of the pressed flower arrangements from the icebox—a Grace Friar specialty—then heads out, still lugging the burlap along with him.

* * *

The stop by the McCullough bakery is a brief one, Lucas only pausing long enough to make the necessary exchange.

It's a relief when it's his wife, Mary, waiting by the doorway rather than McCullough himself. She raises a hand in greeting and comes down the steps to meet him, squinting in the midafternoon sun.

"Friar. About time you showed up."

"Howdy," he says cordially, dropping the sack to the ground so he can retrieve the flowers from the top of the stack. "Nice seeing you, too."

"You know this always goes a lot more pleasantly when my husband is out," she says pointedly. Lucas nods, not wanting to rehash the specifics.

The grudge that the McCullough family holds against his father's is a long one, deeply rooted in some Games betrayal from decades before that neither of them like to talk about too much. All Lucas knows for sure is his Pappy Joe died believing their family was in the right, but he doesn't see how there can really be a right side in a deadly game where children murder each other for sport.

"You got 'em?"

Lucas hands over the flowers, Mary sighing in approval as she takes them in her hands. "Yes, these are nice. Your mother is the best in the business, you know that? No one knows how to work with florals quite like Grace."

"So I've been told," Lucas murmurs. It's not the side of his mother he sees most often anymore. "You got any of those cream puffs leftover?"

"That all you want? You sure? Loaf of bread would probably serve you better."

Lucas nods, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Special evening. Worth the treat."

"Yes, suppose it is," Mary says distantly, remembering the events just on the horizon. Lucas figures she's seen enough of them, she's not exactly awaiting them with bated breath these days. "Timmy! Don't just hover there. Grab the cream puffs from the cooling rack."

It's only after he's addressed that Lucas notices the smaller figure hovering by the doorway, halfway hidden in the house. Timmy McCullough eyes him curiously before disappearing into the shop.

"He's taller than I remember," Lucas comments. "How old is he now?"

"Just turned nine." Although neither of them say it, they both do the calculation in their head. Three more years. Two more years of complete freedom. One more year of dreading the inevitable. Perhaps, Lucas realizes, Mrs. McCullough will be remembering the coming of the Reaping much more keenly soon enough.

Timmy returns to the doorway and hops down the steps with a small cardboard box, handing it off to his mother and stepping back a ways. He continues to watch Lucas like a hawk, expression caught somewhere between aversion and fascination. Partially because of their family rivalry, Lucas is certain, but partially because it feels sort of exceptional to see a boy his age still roaming around the district. Even though statistically there are plenty of them around, knowing how long they've gone without being picked as a sacrifice conjures up some sense of rarity.

"Four enough?"

"That's fine, thanks," Lucas says amicably, taking the box and placing it on top of the other goods in his bag. "Have a good one."

Mary nods tightly, obviously debating saying something else. Lucas can see it written all over her face—the desire to want to say something positive about tomorrow's events, even though there's nothing really to say at all.

He doesn't give her the opportunity. He offers Timmy a thin smile he doesn't return before turning on his heel and continuing his trek, heading out towards the district perimeter.

* * *

Lucas spots who he's looking for before he even gets close to the fences.

"Finally!" Asher declares, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and squinting in his direction. "Lucas Friar, I thought we said half past four. It's a while past half past four!"

Lucas can't help the grin that spreads across his face as he meets up with his best friend. A weight is lifted off his shoulders, emotionally and literally as he shoves the burlap sack at him. "Sorry, errands to run."

"I'll say—Jesus, this thing weighs a bull ton," Asher complains, struggling to heft it up into his arms. "How do you carry this thing around all day?"

Lucas shrugs offhandedly. "Do what you gotta do, don't you? And you get used to it after a while."

Asher drops the sack against the rail of the fence, exhaling harshly and shaking his head. "I don't think I'd ever get used to that. But I guess that's why you're the talk of the town with your nice arms and your tan and I'm just… swell Asher."

Lucas laughs as he tosses a pebble at the fence, waiting for the telltale lack of a spark that indicates the electricity is turned off. When there's no shock, he reaches forward and lifts the wire for them to duck under. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, well, you know," Asher says, scrambling under first and waiting for Lucas to crawl through after him, placing his hands on his hips. "People look at you and I standing next to each other, they're seeing very different things. They look at you, they think action. They think burly."

"Burly?"

"They look at me, Asher Garcia, and their brains pause for a second." Asher imitates this pause, holding his hands up to emulate a halt. "Because they're trying to come up with something to say. Because let's face it, there's not a lot to say about these chicken legs."

"That's not—,"

"So they conclude, oh, Asher? Well he's… swell. He's just swell."

Lucas shakes his head, following as Asher leads the way a little ways past the perimeter of the district. The two of them embark on their weekly tradition of scanning the outskirts for injured animals, a habit they've engaged in together since before they were Games eligible. The ones still alive, the ones they can save, Lucas attempts to help back on their feet. The ones too far gone, Asher collects to skin for furs.

Survival. It's been the game they've played together for as long as Lucas can remember. It almost feels like forever.

Maybe it's because he's known Asher Garcia just about his entire life. He's the one thing that's remained constant throughout his childhood, and his family feels more like blood to him than either of his parents. So he doesn't mind so much that he puts in all this extra work to get enough food for his family, and Asher, and all of Asher's as well—it just feels like repaying the favor. What he gives them in sustenance, they more than make up for in comfort. A sense of belonging.

It's a little easier to survive when you have a place to belong.

"That one's long gone," Lucas says matter-of-factly as the two of them scrutinize a fox corpse drying out in the sun. "You can salvage that one for sure."

Asher grimaces, careful to secure his father's leather gloves on his hands before scooping up the corpse. "I hate doing this. I feel like a vulture."

"Hey, they may not be pleasant but they know how to survive. Rather be a vulture than the corpse they're picking off."

Asher doesn't seem so convinced.

Jenna, Asher's mother, has told Lucas in confidence once or twice that she's glad the two of them became friends. She seems worried about him in a way she can never quite articulate, and claimed that he needed a friend like Lucas to watch out for him. Someone a little tougher, a little bolder, a little more willing to jump into a fray and do what needs to be done.

Lucas doesn't consider himself bold by any means, but then, he doesn't think of Asher as particularly unable to protect himself either. He's certainly the scrappier of the two of them, growing up slight and gangly in comparison to Lucas's stockier build. His strawberry blonde hair and mess of freckles don't exactly scream intimidating, but it's one of the things Lucas likes most about him. He's more soft-spoken in larger company, but neither of them are exactly looking for attention, which is likely why they're friends in the first place.

Dylan was always the showman of their trio. Asher, like Lucas, prefers the quiet.

So until he got older, Lucas never quite understood what Jenna Garcia was implying when she shared this secret with him. But regardless it did its job, because now he feels a near obligation to look out for him and make sure he's okay. Keeping others around him surviving, as his expertise demands.

Once they've finished their lap around the perimeter the two of them return to the fence, settling down and taking inventory of all the content they've collected throughout the day. Lucas gives Asher the long lecture of all the rations he's picked up for his family—by far the largest share of the goods he divvyed up earlier in the day.

"Right, I got it," Asher nods along, having heard the spiel a hundred times before. His focus is elsewhere, cutting up the skin of the fox with practiced precision. "You know, you really don't have to do all this for us. My family, I mean. No sense in you breaking your back—,"

"You say this every week, and you always know what I'm going to say," Lucas counters, raising his eyebrows at the look Asher gives him. When the latter rolls his eyes, he smiles. "I don't mind it. Besides, it keeps food on the table. Keeps you from having to draw tesserae."

"Yeah, we'll see what good it does." Asher gives up on the coat for the time being, rinsing his hands with water from his canteen. "Only a few short hours until we get to relive the annual glory."

"Speaking of," Lucas says slyly, grinning at the suspicious look Asher tosses him. He reaches into the burlap, pulling out the box from McCullough bakery.

"No way," Asher says, gasping audibly as Lucas drops the box between them.

"It is a special occasion."

"Holy shit, man," Asher declares gratefully, taking a cream puff out of the box for himself. He raises it to his nose to inhale, groaning appreciatively. "They're fresh. Not even the leftovers. How did you swing this?"

"All part of the trade," Lucas says mysteriously, nodding a thanks when Asher hands him one of his own. They knock the pastries together, raising them in mock toast. "Cheers."

"And may the odds—,"

"Don't even finish that sentence."

There's a placated silence as the two of them dive in, devouring the pastries far too quickly to thoroughly enjoy them. But the treat of them alone is enough to satisfy.

"How is it right now?" Lucas asks. "Prepping for the Reaping?"

Asher takes his time to answer, chewing thoughtfully on his last bite of cream puff and licking the sugar from his fingers. He squints as he glances up at the cloudless sky, crinkling the freckles along his nose. "Ma's not talking much about it. Still trying to shield Travis and Bennett from the horror of it all, I think. But it's not like they don't know. Even Eileen, she's five, and I'm pretty sure she gets it."

Lucas nods, twisting his fingers together subconsciously. "How old is Bennett again?"

"Eleven." Asher pauses, letting the meaning of the number sink in. "So, yeah. Ma's got that looming over her this year. Last year with that freedom. She figures she's lucky enough I made it this far, sixteen and all. Don't know how she can keep that luck going with three other kids and six years to go on each of them."

"Well, you're doing everything you can. Limited tesserae, stacking your odds against others—,"

"Yeah, and who's that stacking the odds against?" Asher says sharply, eyeing Lucas critically. All the work he does to keep their families afloat may keep Asher from having to put additional names in for rations, but it doesn't do much for him.

He's taken out his fair share of tesserae for all their benefits, and Asher knows this all too well.

"It doesn't even matter in the end," he continues bitterly, ripping at a piece of grass between his legs. His voice shakes slightly. "It's all just a bunch of stupid luck. How old were we when it was Dylan? Fourteen? His name couldn't have been in there more than five times."

It wasn't until Dylan was reaped that Lucas understood why Jenna was so worried about Asher. Because he took it hard, incredibly hard, and it was then that Lucas realized the real reason he was so fond of his best friend. The real reason it was such a relief to be around him was because Asher was probably the most authentic piece of humanity within their entire district. He's compassionate, and thoughtful, and puts out so much empathy into a world that's dulled to grey with how much has been sucked out of it.

It's a gift, and it's his favorite thing about his best friend. But it's also a curse, living in the world they do. Because their world is about survival, not humanity. There's a ceremonial sacrifice every year to prove just that.

"How many times is your name in that bowl tomorrow?" Asher asks suddenly, voice still quivering from the memory of their friend. When Lucas doesn't respond, he presses him further. "Lucas. How many times?"

He can't look at him. "53."

There's a heavy silence. Asher curses under his breath, running his hands through his hair and digging his heels in the dirt. Trying to cope with a reality that doesn't have many odds in their favor.

Lucas knows that for a good person like Asher to survive, he needs someone like him to protect him. To absorb all the low blows and preserve what humanity there is left.

But it's hard to live in a world that needs so much empathy when you're one of the only ones willing to offer it.

* * *

Lucas makes his last stop of the evening after stopping by the Garcia's to drop their rations, lugging the burlap sack to his final destination.

The Orlando residence is cold and silent as he approaches it, a stark reminder of everything that's been robbed from it. Lucas has many fond memories of days spent at Dylan's dwelling, loud with laughter and music and the rambunctious shenanigans of one of his oldest friends.

Now, it's simply quiet.

Lucas knocks lightly on the door, waiting about a minute before trying again. "Ms. Orlando?"

No answer. Lucas can't say he's surprised.

Part of the usual routine, Lucas darts his way around the side of the house, heading towards the back window. He ducks out of sight as a couple of Peacekeepers make their way down the lane, chatting lightly as they make their evening patrol. Most of the Peacekeepers in 10 aren't exactly the most rigorous enforcement officers, but he figures it'll look bad no matter what if they see him sneaking into a dwelling that's not his.

The moment they're out of sight, Lucas straightens up and reaches for the crowbar resting by the back steps. After a couple minutes of careful maneuvering he's able to pop open the kitchen window, hefting himself up onto the pane and climbing inside.

The house feels even colder on the inside than it does outside. Lucas exhales a sigh and forces himself to work quickly, unloading his remaining rations and placing them in locations where Ms. Orlando or her caretakers are sure to find them. Then he checks the sink basin, retrieving the cleaned containers from his last visit and dumping them into his bag.

Squinting in the dim light, Lucas makes a point of heading over to the fireplace and lighting one of the small lamps. Less so for his benefit and more for the caretakers who stop by later—these dwellings are hard to navigate at night, and having no source of light isn't any help.

As he blows out the match, his attention is drawn to the picture frames decorating the mantle. It's been a while since he's taken the time to really look at them, a very purposeful decision.

The portrait of Dylan to the right of the candle is hard to look away from. The smile on his face is so captivating, so true to the mischievous energy and spirit that his friend always carried around with him wherever he went. It feels wrong that it's only trapped in a glass frame, in a memory, when it belongs on the face of a boy who always felt so alive.

Lucas feels that lump forming in the back of his throat again. He swallows it down, reaching out and gently touching the surface of the frame.

"There you are!"

Lucas nearly jumps out of his skin, whipping around to face Ms. Orlando. It's one of the few times she's ever emerged while he's been by and something he was wholly unprepared for, if the ballistic pounding of his heart is any indication.

"Ms. Orlando," he says dryly, attempting to catch his breath. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—,"

"Dear, it's been so long. I've been worried sick." She gives him a stern look, but it melts into a smile relatively fast. "I know you're always off playing tricks, but you have to let a mother know when you'll be coming back around. We worry, you know."

"I know, I'm sorry. I was just dropping some things—,"

"Oh, Dylan, my silly boy," she says with a laugh, shaking her head and placing her hands on her hips. "When will you learn?"

Lucas's breath catches in his throat. He always knew Ms. Orlando went off the deep end when Dylan didn't make it back from the Games, even if she always knew it was a long shot. He knew this, and yet it still floors him when he realizes what she thinks is going on here. Who she sees standing in his spot by the fireplace.

"Ms. Orlando," he says softly, choking out the words as best he can manage. "It's Lucas. Lucas Friar."

She frowns at him.

"I was just coming by to bring you some rations." Lucas swallows hard, wringing his hands together tightly. "I apologize for intruding."

"Lucas… you're not…" She struggles to catch up with this turn of events, brow furrowed and gaze towards the floor. "Dylan's not with you?"

"No, Ms. Orlando. I'm sorry."

This seems to trouble her. After a moment, her expression brightens. She offers Lucas a friendly smile. "Well, he is such a troublemaker. I'm sure he's out running around up to no good. Do you know when he'll be back?"

He doesn't know how to make it clear. He's not sure he wants to. Whatever world Ms. Orlando has built for herself, whatever fantasy she's living in, it's evidently much easier than living in their world. It's some kind of place where Dylan gets to stay alive. A place where Asher would thrive, most likely. Much better than this one.

Lucas wishes he could be in that world, too. So he decides to play along.

"I'm sure he'll be home soon," he says, the lump painful in his throat. Ms. Orlando seems to accept this, nodding along and pattering back towards the hall from where she came.

Lucas backs away, not allowing himself another glance at her or at her son's grinning photo on the mantle. It was his fault for allowing himself to look in the first place, a rookie mistake he outgrew a long time ago.

He's all about survival, and there's no room for emotion in survival. It only makes it harder to breathe.

* * *

Lucas has never preferred spending time at home, but the evening before the Reaping is always the worst of it.

It isn't even because the event is looming over all of them and dominating the conversation—on the contrary, it's more because no one in his family chooses to acknowledge it at all. For the last several years that he's been eligible to be reaped, Lucas cannot remember one Reaping eve where his mother said more than a few words about the whole ordeal.

On the part of his father, he can't remember a time where he said anything at all.

From the way the evening shapes out by the time he returns home from the Orlando dwelling and starts prepping supper, it doesn't seem like his second to last year is going to be any different.

Although all three of them are home, there isn't much warmth filling the space. Kenneth Friar takes his supper as he always does, in the living area on his own while he works on accounting for the Rands and Millers. He takes his helping without so much as a look in Lucas's direction, continuing the silent arrangement between the two of them to pretend that his son does not actually exist. Only thing is, Lucas can't remember when he signed this agreement.

His mother eats a small serving before setting to work on her next seat of floral arrangements, spreading the flowers across the wooden counter where Lucas is attempting to eat. He moves out of her way without comment, taking the hint and finishing his food by the window.

Once he's finished, he approaches the other side of the counter and drops his bowl in the sink. Before he can make a move one way or the other, his mother addresses him.

"Could do your mother a favor and help with these stems," she says pointedly, not raising her eyes from the work in front of her.

Lucas doesn't dispute, reaching for a pair of sheers and beginning to trim off the stalks of the flowers. He could argue that he was intending to the entire time, that she never gave him a chance, but he's learned over the years that it's not worth arguing in this family.

They cut in silence, the only sound coming from the old radio in the corner of the room as Kenneth listens to the Capitol report. Lucas is thankful the signal is so fragmented—he doesn't think he could stomach anymore discussion of tomorrow's events than he already has.

"You get the pressings to the McCullough residence like I asked?"

Lucas nods, keeping his eyes on the stem in his fingers. "Yep."

"Good. And they were oh so grateful, I'm sure?"

"Wasn't so bad. Mary was there when I went over."

Grace scoffs, raising her eyebrows down at the countertop. She scrapes at the stalks in her hand with expert precision, shaking her head. "As if she's any better than the rest of them. All the stuff they did to your Pappy… well, at least she paid in full. Hardly get much of that these days."

Lucas doesn't bother enlightening his mother to the fact that he doesn't actually know much of what happened between Pappy Joe and McCullough, and he doesn't see how it should matter nearly half a century later. Considering everything else they have to contend with on a daily basis—like potential starvation—it just doesn't seem all that important.

What feels important is the fact that for how much he remembers the good things about him and how often he misses him, Lucas can't find one thing in this house that belonged to Pappy Joe. Nothing that honors his memory or reveres him in the way his mother seems to claim they do. In some ways, it makes sense, considering Joe was his father's father and his father can't seem to bring himself to care about much of anything other than himself.

But for all the fuss they put up about it in front of other people, he can't help but notice the hypocrisy.

"Don't see how we're much better," he mutters. When his mother raises her head to glare at him, he knows he isn't going to get away with the offhand comment. "Only saying, when you sell off everything that ever belonged to him—,"

"Oh, don't get me started on this again," Grace snaps, rolling her eyes. "We had this discussion enough when you were a child. Money's tight, so things had to go. That's what happens when you have a child."

 _That you never intended to have._ The words go without saying, and Lucas hears them in his head loud and clear as usual.

"Could've at least sold off your own stuff instead of mine."

"Funny, I thought seventeen was old enough to stop acting like a child." Lucas doesn't bother to respond, swallowing his anger and chewing on the inside of his cheek instead. "Anything under this house belongs to your father, don't act like you don't know that. Besides, it was a buffalo nickel. It didn't mean that much anyhow, Joe gave it to you because he couldn't afford to get you anything of actual interest."

Lucas bites down hard enough to draw blood. He swallows it reluctantly. "It was of interest to me."

"Well, now it's gone. That's how it is around here. Nothing we care about gets to hang around for long, does it?"

A tense silence settles over them. Lucas focuses harder on the flower in his hand, resenting it in lieu of not being able to channel his anger anywhere else. For something so simple and pretty to bloom in the face of what the world around them looks like, how oppressive it is towards anything that attempts to shine as colorfully as the yellow daffodil in his fingers, he doesn't see how it's fair it gets to exist at all.

"Should've never had you," Grace says coldly, but the statement seems like more of a resigned realization than a dig meant to hurt him. She's still shaking her head, back to avoiding eye contact with him across the countertop. "Would've been better off for all parties involved, wouldn't it?"

Lucas snips the end of the stem, letting the flower head drop onto the counter.

"How old is the youngest McCullough now. Tommy?"

"Timmy. He's nine."

Grace scoffs again, a grim smile ghosting over her features. "We'll see how Mary likes it when her time comes around. We'll see how she likes it then."

Silence again, save for the radio and Kenneth's scratching on parchment. Lucas finishes with the sheers, dropping them on the countertop and escaping back towards his room without another word. No one mentions the next morning. No one offers a goodnight.

Just as it was when he came back earlier in the day, as it always is, the Friar dwelling is empty regardless of how many people are inside taking up space. Lucas has to think that no matter what happens tomorrow, they wouldn't even notice if he were gone.

* * *

Sleep on the eve of the Reaping is rare, despite how many years have gone by and how jaded Lucas feels he's become. Regardless of whether he's in a mood of reluctant confidence that he'll be fine, trapped in his usual thankless routine for another year, or succumbing to blind resignation that the odds are infinitely stacked against him. No matter how emotionless he feels thinking about it, the Reaping looming over the district renders getting any restful sleep absolutely null and void.

For every year previously, nothing has ever shaken the routine he experienced throughout the day. It slugs along like every other, and no circumstance indicates that a change may be coming around the bend.

This year, however, something shifts. Lucas hears it when he's lying cramped on his mattress he's long since outgrown, twirling a pencil in his fingers and willing himself to sleep only so he can wake up sooner and get it all over with.

For the first time in the last seventeen years, Lucas hears crying within the walls of his own house.

Brow furrowed, he climbs to his feet and places the pencil gently on his windowsill. As he makes his way out the door and down the tiny hallway, he tries to piece together all the logical possibilities while the sound grows louder as he approaches.

Perhaps something happened to one of the Garcia children and Jenna came by to get their help. Maybe Dylan's mother got wise and followed him back after his drop-off, only now realizing the cold truth that her son is not coming home any time soon.

When he enters the living area in search of the source, it's neither of those options. But it's nothing he was expecting at all.

His mother is leaning against the countertop away from him, attempting to stifle her sobs and twisting some small object in her fingers.

He stands frozen in the doorway for a long moment, uncertain how to proceed. Emotion has never been the backbone of his family, in fact it's rarely ever been a factor at all. He has no memory of his mother ever crying, always cold and defensive to compete with Kenneth's cool indifference. The more he thinks about it, the more he struggles to even come up with a reason why she would suddenly be crying in the first place.

"Mama?"

Grace visibly jumps, gasping and whipping away from him the moment she realizes she's not alone. As she moves, Lucas can just make out the small glass sitting in front of her on the counter, a bit of amber liquid still lining the bottom of it.

"What are you doing awake?" Grace inhales sharply, obviously attempting to pull herself together without him noticing. As if he couldn't notice her disheveled state and the raspy quality to her voice. Even her harsh tone can't mask it. "You're supposed to be asleep."

"Sorry." Lucas steps forward timidly, approaching the situation with caution. "Have you been drinking?"

She shrugs absentmindedly, not meeting his eyes. Lucas comes to the other side of the countertop, mirroring the way they were standing only a few hours ago.

"You know you're not supposed to—," Lucas starts, stopping himself halfway through the thought to correct himself. He figures reprimanding his mother isn't going to get them anywhere, especially considering he gets his own prideful streak from her. "It's Kenneth's. He'll notice."

"Yeah, well, who paid for it?" Grace spits, resting her hand irritably on the countertop. She pokes at the glass in front of her, resentment shining through her blue eyes. He doesn't know what it's directed towards. "Not him. Not me."

Lucas isn't sure what to say. He can't quite figure out whether his mother is truly acknowledging all the effort he puts into their survival or if she's just riffing for the hell of it. She has plenty of things she could be angry about in regards to his father.

Instead of elaborating, she downs the rest of the alcohol, dropping the glass on the wood. "None of it matters anyway. Nothing in this Godforsaken hell of a district even matters."

"I think you need to get some rest," Lucas notes in a murmur, coming around and starting to clean up around her. She doesn't agree but she doesn't stop him either, allowing him to retrieve the glass and place it in the sink.

"It's like, how did we end up living this life?" she asks bitterly, shaking her head towards the ceiling. "Panem, all its… its brilliant debauchery. People work, and they work, and all it does and take and take and take. It took your grandfather. Both your grandfathers. It took my husband in more ways than one. Every year it takes twenty-four of our babies and spits them back out as corpses."

Lucas allows her to ramble, knowing he doesn't have anything to say that will make the situation better. He doesn't think highly of their reality either—there's nothing about it to admire. All he can do is let her get it all out of her system now, before daylight rolls around and she says something to someone she may regret.

He's caught off-guard as he turns back around and she's facing him, standing closer to him than she has in the last seven years. The last time either of his parents got this close was when Kenneth berated him for skipping out on class to pick up some extra work at the dairy farm, slapping him around a bit just to get the point across.

He'd received the message loud and clear: nothing good ever comes when people get too close.

Grace stares up at him, eyes glassy and suddenly at a loss for all her words she was spewing moments ago. She shakes her head, lower lip trembling. "They just take and they take."

In an instant, she reaches up and touches his cheek. Lucas flinches slightly, completely unprepared. He realizes he's holding his breath.

"My boy," she exhales harshly, a couple of tears sliding down her cheeks again. She runs her thumb across his cheekbone. "My beautiful boy."

Lucas is suddenly heavy with the weight of how unfair everything is. He's aware how desperately the younger, more vulnerable version of himself wanted a moment like this from his mother, yet never got it. He's aware of how his mother is only allowed to be vulnerable in the shadows of moonlight, using alcohol as a catalyst and a cover for the next morning when she has to pretend none of it matters.

Mostly, he's aware of how his mother is right—this is the world they live in, and it takes and it takes and it takes, offering nothing in return. And there's not one thing he can do about it other than continue to survive.

"Early morning tomorrow," Lucas reminds her gently, stepping back from her touch. She hesitates a moment before recoiling, moving away from him as well and swallowing hard. Pulling back the emotion, already working to bury it back under the surface. "You should rest."

She tosses him a glare. The harsh edge to her demeanor is already returning, but it doesn't feel quite as cold as usual. This time, he knows it's just a shield, and a delicate one at that.

"You're supposed to be asleep," she repeats flatly, as if the entirety of their conversation beyond him arriving in the doorway never happened.

He nods, not bothering to argue and heading back towards the hall. He glances back at his mother over his shoulder as she collects herself, picking up the pieces of herself alcohol scattered across the kitchen floor. Surviving, the only way she knows how.

* * *

Lucas arrives at the town center later than most, trailing behind after a particularly restless night. After he steps up to the registrar and offers up his blood to confirm he's in attendance, he scans the crowd for Asher.

He just barely makes out the back of his best friend's strawberry blonde head when someone else bumps into him, distracting him. He reaches out to stop them from stumbling, surprised to see Sophie Miller staring back at him on her way over to the girls' side of the stage.

"Oh, Lucas," she says breathlessly, taking a moment to look him over. She offers a tight smile. "You look great."

"Thanks," he says, hardly registering the compliment.

"Last year." She brushes some hair out of her face, exhaling lightly. Lucas can't help but notice how much she stands out in comparison to the rest of the students their age penned into the square, clothing newer and not a speck of grime on her face. He still has specks of dirt he thinks are permanently etched into his skin, no matter how many times he scrubs at it in the bath. "Wish me luck."

He doesn't think he has any luck to offer. But he manages a smile anyway. "May the odds…"

She gives him a wave and heads in the other direction, Lucas pushing through the crowd of other seventeen year old boys to take his spot near Asher. There's traditionally another boy between them, but he hasn't arrived so they have a moment to speak.

"Where have you been?" Asher asks, glancing up towards the stage and nervously straightening the helm of his shirt. It's wrinkled and about a size too big, like it has been every year they've stood here together. "I thought for a second you weren't going to show."

"Running late," Lucas mutters. He crosses his arms, tapping his fingers against the inside of his elbow. "But are you kidding? This is my favorite day of the year. I wouldn't miss it. Over my dead body, right?"

Asher tosses him a disdainful look, obviously not in the mood for sarcasm. Lucas thinks of trying to reassure him, but he doesn't know what to say. Before he can come up with anything, their conversation is interrupted as their classmate steps in between them, taking his space.

It doesn't matter, he convinces himself. In an hour or so, this will all be over for another year. He just has to make it through.

Lucas zones out through a majority of the ceremony, well-acquainted with the usual spiel about how wonderful the Capitol is. The promotional video for the Games they show every year is so carved into his memory he could probably recite it at a moment's notice, albeit with embitterment. He doesn't see why they're even bothering making a big a spectacle of it—no one cares about his district or the ones after it, the Capitol has made that clear enough over the decades.

His attention refocuses as the preppy woman at the microphone claps her hands excitedly. "Now, let us discover which brave, bold souls from District 10 will have the privilege of traveling to the Capitol and fighting for honor, fame, glory—,"

"Facial reconstruction," one of the eighteen year olds murmurs behind him. Their section of the square erupts into chuckles. Lucas licks his lips, trying to keep the smirk off his face.

"Without further ado," the woman concludes, speaking with breathy emphasis. "The girls."

There's a tense silence across the square as her heels click across the stage and stand in front of the bowl bearing all the females from their district. She ruffles through the bowl for a prolonged amount of time, drawing out the suspense.

"Jade Beamon!" she says cheerfully, looking out towards the crowd. "Where are you, Jade?"

Lucas squints towards the other side of the square, watching for the seas to part as they always do once a tribute is chosen. He's a bit disheartened to see it happen closer to the back of the crowd, indicating the girls under fifteen.

It's always worse when it's one of the young ones.

Slowly, a petite, uncertain girl with wide eyes and long, unkempt light brown hair emerges from the crowd and into the center aisle between genders. She stares up at the stage, shoulders heaving as she attempts to control her breathing.

"Come on, dear. Don't be shy. There you go." The Capitol woman smiles down at Jade as she makes her way past the older children, shakily climbing the stairs to the stage. When she arrives next to her she clasps her hand. "Congratulations. What an absolute honor."

Jade looks far from feeling honored. Lucas can't help but think she looks like one of the baby calves as they're being carted off to the slaughterhouse. Next to him, Asher shakes his head.

"And now," she exhales dramatically. "For the boys."

Another long silence as she makes her way over to the other side. An even longer pause for suspense, because the Capitol has to keep their masses entertained by the stress of the district common folk for as long as humanly possible.

The slip is drawn from the bowl, caught between the woman's fingers. She waddles her way back to the microphone, unfurling the slip and taking a deep breath.

For one last second, the normalcy of the situation persists. Then, everything collapses all at once.

"Lucas Friar!"

It's not like he didn't know the odds weren't in his favor. It's not like he wasn't aware how many times his name was in that bowl, how large the percentage of paper slips in that dish had to be dedicated to him. It's not as though he hadn't spent undue amounts of time over the last six years preparing for the very real possibility that his name could be drawn, knowing it was more and more likely as the years went by and he drew more tesserae.

But the moment his name echoes loudly across the expanse of the district square, the only roar in a vacuum of suspenseful silence, it's as though none of that ever happened. He's not prepared. He doesn't know what to do. He can't actively wrap his brain around the fact that the name ringing in his ears belongs to him.

Asher leans around the boy between the two of them, face white as a sheet and jaw hanging open. It's the expression Lucas is feeling on the inside, but outwardly he remains impassive. Frozen. Jaw set and eyes staring straight ahead.

He feels the typical phenomenon of teenagers giving him a wide berth, the sea parting around him. He's acutely aware of his heart pounding in his wrist. But his sense aren't working quite right—everything feels far away.

"Lucas? There he is."

Move. He has to move.

Regaining control of his muscles he forces himself to step forward, robotically making his way through his classmates and spilling out into the aisle. Staring up towards the towering building before him, he starts to make his way towards the stage.

"Excellent. Here he comes. That's wonderful."

He keeps his hands clenched into fists tightly at his sides, only breaking form when the dreadfully decorated woman offers him congratulations and nudges him forward to address his fellow tribute. She instructs them to shake hands, stepping back so that the Capitol can see the beautiful moment of camaraderie captured on camera.

As Jade reaches out and takes his hand, he notices how light her grip is and how fiercely her hands are trembling. She won't look him in the eyes, glancing around his shoulder. He's aware of how much he towers over her in height—considering how tightly he's clenching his jaw, he knows he must look less than friendly.

It hits him that while he's feeling unprepared, it's probably nothing to how terrified the fourteen year old girl in front of him feels. Standing in front of him, a guy three years older and double her size, knowing very well that he could be the one who kills her. That her death must seem inevitable from where she's standing right now, only a quarter through what should be her life expectancy and facing the insurmountable.

In that moment, Lucas decides he has to reevaluate. No matter what happens from here on out, what game plan he crafts to get back home, he's not going to let Jade Beamon fall through the cracks on his watch.

Just another person to protect with his ability to survive. And the territory they're about to enter is going to be far more of a challenge than he's ever faced before.

Jade's hand disconnects from his and they're shepherded through the doors to the justice building before he can take another look, leaving the dusty square and endless farmland he's known his entire life behind him to rot.

* * *

He barely has time to process anything before he's tossed in a wing of the justice building and left alone, locked inside what looks like a study and told to wait until he's retrieved to board the train. The Peacekeeper in charge of him is less than gentle, shoving him into the space and informing him that his visitors will be by momentarily, should they make it in time.

The door slams shut. Lucas states blankly at it, not sure what he's supposed to do next.

Thankfully, it's not long before it opens again. His mother glances nervously at the Peacekeeper over her shoulder as she enters the space, keeping her distance as the door closes behind her. She makes no move to get any closer, clasping her hands together and eyeing her son from a distance.

Lucas doesn't bother to close the gap. He clears his throat, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Thanks for coming to see me off."

Grace doesn't comment. He's certain she doesn't know how. After a long beat she sighs, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

"Should have never had you," she intones, pressing her thumb to her lips in an effort to keep it together. Returning to their usual form, all vulnerability from the night before a distant memory. "Would've been better off for everyone."

Lucas swallows. "Maybe so."

The sentiment hangs in the air between them, as well as the dread of knowing what comes next.

Without another word Grace turns away from him, letting herself out and trapping him in once again. In some ways, he's grateful for the rather swift farewell. Certainly makes it easier to leave.

Lucas exhales, allowing himself to relax his posture. Glancing around the space, he wanders over to the window where the curtains are drawn. Part of him wants to look, get one last view of the place he's called home for the last seventeen years even though it wasn't much of one.

But he knows better. He knows that emotion has no place in survival, and he suddenly has a much grander task ahead of him. If he wants to better his chances, he's better off avoiding sentiment entirely.

Evidently, fate has other plans.

He jumps as the door opens behind him again, surprised to find Asher scrambling into the room. He feels his heart catch in his throat as they lock eyes, the lost expression on his best friend's face more than enough to destroy all his emotionless resolve.

"You have two minutes," the Peacekeeper states. Then, the door slams once more.

Asher darts forward the minute they're alone, wrapping Lucas in a bone-crushing hug. It feels less like a comforting gesture and more like an act of desperation.

Asher isn't sending him off, he's holding on for dear life.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he says shakily. Lucas is familiar with the tone—it's the same exact way he sounded when this happened to Dylan three years ago. It's the same quiver he gets in his voice whenever the memory comes up to haunt him, only doubly as strong. "It wasn't."

"There's a picture frame under my mattress," Lucas states matter-of-factly, ignoring his comments of disbelief.

Asher pulls away from him, giving him a confused look. Lucas tries hard to brush over the fact that his friend's eyes are glossy with tears, staying focused on the task at hand.

"There's a picture frame under my mattress," he repeats. "If you find it, take off the back. There's some money saved there. Take it and ration it out over the next few weeks. Make sure Travis and Bennett and Eileen eat enough."

"Lucas—,"

"If you keep skinning furs, you'll be able to sell them at the Hub. I know you've never been there, but they know you. They know me, so they know you. Talk to Geralyn, she'll help you figure everything out. Sell those, and that'll help too. Teach Bennett too, and Travis if you can manage it."

Asher absorbs this information, confusion still consuming his features. He tilts his head. "That's not going to—,"

"Set aside some of the money for my parents. My mom has the floral arrangements to keep her going but she'll need more for my father as well. Keep an eye on them, as well as Ms. Orlando, for the next couple of weeks."

"For what?" Asher demands, annoyance laced through his tone. He glares at Lucas, frustration mixing with the grief. "This isn't going to last us that long. I don't know how much you've got in that picture, but it won't feed all of us."

"It just has to last a couple of weeks."

"What are you talking about?" Asher runs his hands through his hair. "Do you have any idea what you're about to step into? Are you in that much denial right now? You're speaking too logically to be deranged."

"I'm coming back," Lucas states boldly.

With Asher's disbelieving expression, a small bout of hysteria starts to rise in the back of his throat, breaking through the shock that washed over him the moment his name was called.

"How long are the games, three weeks at most? You just have to last that long, and then I'll come back, and it'll go back to normal. I'll be back."

"Are you crazy?" Asher snaps, a couple of tears slipping down his cheeks. He wipes them furiously, focusing on his exasperation rather than the pain. "Lucas, get a grip. You know what these things are like."

"I'm coming back."

"Shut up!" Asher snaps. "Stop… just stop it! District 10 hasn't had a victor in over twenty years!"

Lucas's eyes widen. He swallows hard, pushing back the panic. "Then I'll be the next one!"

All Asher offers him is a timid, broken shake of his head. As if he's already accepted a certain version of reality, the only version that could possibly come true.

"Listen to me. Asher, listen," Lucas says, taking his shoulders and gripping them tightly. He waits for him to meet his eyes. "This is a new Games. I'm not those other tributes. I'm not Dylan."

The name drop obviously stings. Asher screws his eyes shut, absorbing the blow.

"I'm not Dylan. This is my story, and it's not over yet. And I'm not going to leave you all behind to fend for yourselves. I'm not going to do that." He holds his best friend's gaze, feeling the determination run through his veins the more he commits to the promise. "You take care of them, and I'll take care of the rest. I'll come back."

Asher stares at him, lingering on his words. Clearly trying to convince himself to believe them.

The door opens loudly behind them, the Peacekeeper poking his head in. "Time's up."

Asher leaps forward again, embracing Lucas in another hug. This one is even more desperate than the last. "Don't give up."

"I won't."

"Whatever you do, don't give up." Asher is suddenly wrenched out of his grasp, being yanked away from him by the Peacekeeper. The tears are flowing freely now, staining his cheeks as he's dragged from the space. "Don't give up!"

"Hey, let go of him!" Lucas snarls, trying to pull him from the harsh hold of the Peacekeeper. "Let go!"

"Lucas!"

"Don't touch him, let him go!"

Lucas reaches the door just as it slams in his face, separating him from his best friend and the world he's familiar with once and for all.

Hand raised in defense as the door came towards him, he watches as his fingers come to rest against the mahogany wood. The polished surface feels strange under his calloused fingertips, trembling uncontrollably as he attempts to contain his nerves.

Now he's made a promise. He's made a promise, and he intends to keep it. He only wonders if has what it takes to follow through—survival is one thing, but there's a whole other side to the weeks ahead of him that he hasn't taken a second to think about.

Twenty-three other children his age or younger are all going to be making the same promises, fighting the same fears, working hard to survive. To come out victorious, it's not just going to be about his own longevity.

It's going to come down to getting rid of the competition.

* * *

Lucas is the first one deposited into the main car once they've boarded the train, already speeding their way towards the Capitol. It's a pretty sizeable distance from his district and the central city they supposedly do every to appease, so the journey kicks off without a moment's hesitation.

He makes his way towards the window and gazes out for a bit, overwhelmed by how fast they're breezing by the view outside and how vast the world beyond the district really is. The thought is enough to make him nauseous, so he pulls himself away and retreats to the armchairs. Collapsing haphazardly into a plush blue cushion, he picks nervously at a hangnail on his thumb and waits for his mentor to arrive.

There's a quiet rush of air as the car door slides open behind him, calling his attention. He glances over his shoulder.

It's not his mysterious mentor but Jade, looking as meek as ever as she enters the luxurious space. Still dressed in their humble Reaping attire, it's starkly obvious how poor and out of place they appear surrounded by the extravagances of the Capitol.

His presence evidently doesn't make her feel any safer. She immediately looks away from him and he does the same, allowing her privacy as she wanders her way in his direction. It takes an impressively long time before she settles primly in the chair next to his, folding her hands neatly in her lap and keeping her eyes averted in the other direction.

He can see her knee bouncing anxiously and can practically feel the fear radiating off of her. He remembers the responsibility he gave himself as they stood face to face on the stage, knowing he's already failing at trying to make her feel secure. His presence alone seems to be more than intimidating.

He clears his throat, turning slightly in his chair to face her. When she doesn't acknowledge him, he ventures for a greeting. "Jade, right?"

She cocks her head to look at him, eyes wide. He offers what he hopes is a friendly smile, certainly nothing to be afraid of.

"That's a cool name. Almost sounds as glamorous as like, District 1. They're the jewelry and stuff, right?"

After a tense pause, Jade nods. Lucas continues to smile, grateful that she's at least engaging with him.

"Cool. Well, I'm Lucas. I know they said it and everything on stage, but you were probably distracted. And I can't blame you. But, yeah. Lucas."

He holds out his hand. She glances down at it apprehensively, not making any move to accept the gesture. Sensing she's not there yet, he withdraws.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Being nice to me," she says. Her voice is soft, more so by nature than fear, although the crackly quality it currently possesses Lucas attributes to nerves. "You have no reason to do that. That's not going to mean anything when we end up in the arena in a few days."

She's sharper than she looks. Lucas nods, shrugging lightly. "Maybe. But I don't see why we have to be at odds because of it. Truth be told, it would be nice to have an ally going into things from the get go, don't you think?"

Jade seems to consider this. He's struck by the way she already reminds him of Bennett Garcia—soft-spoken, timid, but sharp as a tack and definitely observant. If she's this careful when the Games actually roll around, he figures she's got as good a chance as he does.

She reminds him the smallest bit of Dylan too—in the pointed features, slight build, and unfortunate circumstances—but he doesn't want to think about that right now. He doesn't want to think about that ever again.

"Tell you what," he says confidently, waiting for her to meet his eyes again. "I don't know what your plan is. And you're welcome to do whatever you want when we get out into that arena. But I'm on your side here. We don't have to go into this alone."

Now she looks intrigued. She examines him curiously, fear still prevalent in her expression but not nearly as dominant.

"I have your back. District 10 isn't going down without a fight." He holds out his hand again, feeling a bit more self-assured this time around. "If you wanna stick together, then we're together."

There's a long pause as Jade contemplates the offer. Then, relief floods through him as she breaks into a shy smile, reaching forward to shake his hand. Sealing the deal.

Already, she's a little bit safer. That's more than he could have asked for so early on.

Their agreement is interrupted as the door at the other end of the car slides open, allowing another passenger to join them.

He's a man only vaguely familiar to Lucas from the many years he's sat up on the stage during the Reapings of the past. He stands tall and formidable, hair greased back out of his face and a neatly trimmed goatee accenting the harsh lines of his scowling face. Aside from his rather put together Reaping attire he wears a pair of ratty, worn biking gloves—Lucas can't remember a time he's seen him without them.

The man takes a long look at them, wearing a blank expression that's neither encouraging nor deflating. Then he scoffs, chuckling to himself as he peruses the buffet table set out before them.

"This is it, huh?" he mumbles, voice raspy with confidence and a little bit of throat damage. He reaches for a long, stringy piece of candy that looks somewhat like licorice. He saunters over to join them, slouching into the chair across from them and chewing on the treat. "This is the humble offering District 10 wants to serve up this year."

Lucas and Jade exchange a look. He can tell their new companion has already set Jade's comfort level back about a thousand miles. "That we are. And you are?"

"Spunky," he says in amusement, taking a bite of the licorice. "As if you don't know who I am. District's only living victor for the last however many years it's been, and you're gonna act as though you don't know who I am."

Lucas holds his tongue, figuring saying less is more. Jade blinks uncertainly, too spooked to say anything.

"Name's Harley Kiener," he proclaims proudly, propping his feet up on the crystal table between them. His combat boots are smeared with soil, muddying the pristine tabletop. "Aforementioned victor of Games past, and your friendly neighborhood mentor for the next couple weeks. So we're going to become the best of friends, aren't we?"

"Mentor?" Jade says timidly, crinkling her nose in confusion. "I thought we were supposed to have one each. I thought mine was supposed to be a girl."

"Well, sweet pea, that's what you'd think. But as I so kindly already explained, I'm the only one we've got. So I'm doing double duty." He crosses his ankles, Jade shrinking back into her seat with the blatant dismissal. "No worries, you can thank me later. Provided you survive, of course."

The silence in the car speaks volumes. Lucas keeps his glare trained on the tabletop, trying to decide whether it's promising or problematic that his mentor seems to have absolutely no concern towards the Capitol, their wares, or the emotional stability of his mentees.

"Oh, well, please, look a little more enthused!" Harley barks, rolling his eyes and getting to his feet. He stretches, wandering over to the window and gazing out at the speeding blur of green. "We'll meet separately as we get closer to the Capitol to talk strategy. So maybe spend a little time thinking about which ways you'd rather not die, and we'll be off to a swimming start."

With that, he finishes his licorice and leaves them alone, the door gliding shut behind him. Lucas blinks after him, Jade exhaling a shaky breath the moment he's gone.

"We're going to die," she whispers. It's a statement, although she follows it with a question. "Aren't we?"

Lucas doesn't have an answer. He doesn't want to make any more promises he can't keep. But so long as it's in his hands, he's going to do his best to make sure Harley prepares the two of them the best he can. Even if he has to butt heads or throw out a little more spunk, he'll do what it takes.

District 10, like he said, is not going down without a fight.

* * *

The first couple of days pass in a blur, almost as dizzying as the world passing them by outside the window. More team members are introduced, ostentatious luxuries are shoved in their faces from the moment they step off the train and into the tribute lodging, and Harley is very little help as Lucas struggles to adjust to his new environment.

He tries his hardest to hate it. The food, the comfort, the feeling of security he knows is only being handed to him for a week so that it can be ripped violently away when the games begin. But it's hard to resent food when you're used to so little of it, and this food is the best there is to offer. It's hard to resent the comfort when he's spent his entire life without it.

Still, the moving pains are hard to stomach. Quite literally, as both he and Jade find themselves vomiting after the first night's meal. Too much rich food for kids that have never been anything but poor.

He genuinely despises the ritual of being cleaned up and picked apart by designers, fashioning them into something presentable before the Capitol has to watch them for days on end. He detests the way the artists fawn over him, telling him he's one of the prettiest district boys they've ever seen—and please, have they seen many—and joking that there's very little they need to do besides tidy him up.

As if every other boy in his district, in every other place besides the Capitol, is bound to look like a dog. What a miracle it is that they find him somewhat decent looking.

The only reprieve to come out of the poking and prodding and burning is meeting his stylist, Angela. She's more down to Earth than anyone else he's met in the Capitol so far, and she assures him outright that she is going to work her hardest to make him memorable. Being memorable, she explains, is almost as important as being fast or strong or violently inclined.

Memorability, she claims, is the true key to victory. Her boyfriend, a former victor, is living proof.

Otherwise, it's a rocky yet begrudgingly pleasant road to their first big live appearance, the chariot ride to enter the public eye.

Lucas stands by their chariot shoved in the back with only two other districts tailing them, making them instantly forgettable just by placement. But Angela and her design partner have certainly done their work, going for a costume design that's a much more refined than previous years. He still feels ridiculous having to dress up in a themed outfit at all, but he's grateful they're not dressed in cow outfits like previous Games.

Jade makes her way over to him from across the garage, hugging herself in embarrassment and attempting not to be noticed. Seeing the look on someone else, he realizes Angela is somewhat succeeding in her quest—the particular arrangement of the denim they're sporting and the homages to sunlight, steel branding, and the brute strength of horses (their smallest but most lucrative market back home) comes together in a way that doesn't look utterly ridiculous. In fact, although she isn't carrying herself as such, Jade suddenly looks much more powerful than she ever could through her own styling.

"This is humiliating," she complains in a whimper, the smoky eyeshadow mirroring the 'glamor of the steel plow'—Lucas couldn't help but laugh at that explanation, to Angela's chagrin—not doing much to cloud her obvious discomfort.

"Agree," Lucas assures her, leaning down slightly so they can talk in softer tones. He knows she's right to some degree—never once has he thought about donning some make-up on his own terms and he's sure he looks ridiculous—but again, he's grateful in the long run. "But trust me, it could've been worse. I mean, look around this room right now and you'll get a taste of how bad it could've been."

Jade pouts at him, following his gaze as he nods in the direction of the kids from District 4. They look embarrassed and shifty as they attempt to keep their fishnet—literal fishnet—costumes in one piece and covering all the essentials.

His distraction technique works as desired, Jade descending into giggles and lightening up a bit. He grins with her, sharing in the joke.

When he glances up again, he's surprised to find someone else looking their direction. The girl from District 9, bright-eyed and with her hair braided over her shoulders, locks eyes with him for the briefest of moments. She immediately swivels away, looking guilty at being caught.

He doesn't have much time to dwell on it as Angela runs over to greet him, joined by Harley and Jade's stylist.

"Oh, great, they're pulling off pretty well," Angela says in relief, holding Lucas's shoulders to get a good look at him. She offers him a bracing smile, nudging him lightly. "You look like just the kind of victor this Games has been looking for, kid."

"Yeah, right."

"Well, at least one of you does," Harley mutters under his breath, only loud enough for Lucas to catch. He glares at him, trying to figure out the intent behind the words but being dragged away as the tributes are instructed to climb up and get ready to ride.

He hops into the chariot first, reaching down to help lift Jade up beside him. Angela blows him a kiss, a swift gesture of encouragement for a scenario that they all know is going to become overwhelming very, very quickly.

Jade looks like she's about to keel over. Glancing towards the awaiting crowd before them as the chariots begin to emerge, Lucas reaches down and takes her hand. She shifts her nervous gaze to him, relaxing a tad when he offers her a reassuring smile.

Then, their chariot rolls out to follow the rest, and the true spirit of the Games really begins.

* * *

Lucas finds himself in trouble well before the Games take off, somehow ending up on the Career radar within the first couple days of training.

He has no idea what their problem is, considering all he planned to do was keep an eye out for Jade and keep his distance from everyone else until absolutely necessary. He spent some time studying at the essential skills stations, tying knots and learning camouflage and identifying plant species that'll kill him long before any of the other tributes do. He dabbled a bit with each of the weapons on display, despite how unwelcome they felt in his hands and how out of practice he knows he is with them.

All he wanted to do was be invisible. Not look for any trouble. Yet, somehow, trouble found him.

When the petite blonde from District 2 made a point of pulling him into a sparring match, he found himself caught in a mouse trap he couldn't pull himself free from. Not only did she get him in trouble with the training personnel, she humiliated him in front of the entire assembly of tributes by completely knocking him on his ass.

It's no surprise—he has no experience with weapons and she's been training her whole life for this one opportunity. But it doesn't make it sting any less.

 _"Oh, you're going to have to try so much harder than that if you don't want to end up gutted on the other side of this spear, cowboy. And trust me, it'll be my pleasure."_

He can still hear her taunts echoing in the back of his head, speaking louder for his own insecurity than his mind ever could.

"They're making you a target," Harley says pointedly over dinner in the suite the next evening, not batting an eye as Jade recounts the tale. Lucas had opted not to report the event, but Jade clearly found it disturbing enough and he knows Harley likely would've found out anyway. "They see you as a threat, so they're painting a bullseye on your back."

"But I didn't do anything to them," Lucas argues back, digging the points of his fork into the tabletop in frustration.

"You think that matters?" Harley gives him an incredulous look, jabbing his spoon in his direction. "This isn't the kindergarten playground, alright? No one's going to play nice just because you do. If you want a chance of getting out of this alive, you have to get your head out of your—,"

"I got it," Lucas grumbles, shoving a piece of potato in his mouth for the sake of doing something.

"So what does he do?" Jade asks in concern, looking back and forth between the two of them.

Harley doesn't spare her a second glance—a continued subtle dismissal that Lucas notices. "Don't you worry about that, sweet pea. Leave that to us to stress about. In fact, you mind giving us a moment? If you're finished."

Jade is obviously upset by being overlooked yet again, but she's too timid to say anything against it. She nods agreeably, getting out of her seat and padding her way to the room across from his. Lucas watches her go, irritation building up on her behalf.

"There are ways to combat this," Harley explains in a murmur, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Jade is well out of earshot. "They're trying to make you seem like an active threat, put more people against you from the start so they'll target you and not them. Makes you seem violent, an aggressor. That whole deal."

Lucas isn't paying attention. He's chewing his food, thinking about the way Jade's been left out to dry for whatever reason and can't seem to do anything about it. It's not hard to get worked up over it—he's already angry, and he's never been very good at controlling his anger.

As of late, it seems like it's ready to flare at any given moment.

"So we're going to combat this. We're going to ease you out of the spotlight. You have scoring tomorrow evening—,"

"Why are you ignoring Jade?" Lucas asks abruptly, eyes still cast in the direction of her room.

Harley seems less than thrilled that he's changing the subject. "What are you on about now?"

"Jade." Lucas turns his gaze back to his mentor, giving him a challenging look. "Why are you dismissing her? You're not giving her any help."

"Oh, good grief."

"You're all over trying to paint me as this picture perfect potential victor but you're not giving her bull. What's she supposed to do out there in the Games if her own mentor isn't giving her any advice? If you just write her off?"

Harley rolls his eyes at the anger in Lucas's tone, only pissing him off further. He takes a long, meaningful sip of his drink, collecting his thoughts before meeting his eyes again.

"Do you know what my job is as a mentor, Friar?"

He grits his teeth. "No, but I'm pretty sure you're failing regardless."

"There's that spunk again. So charming," he says flatly, throwing out another eye roll. "It's my job to train a tribute into a victor. It's my job to bring my tribute home. Now, I don't know if you noticed, but my job is a little more difficult than some of the other mentors out here. They get to focus on their shoddy, half-baked preteen with all the focus they can muster and shape them into something presentable. Something that'll at least survive long enough to not be scraped off the grass in the opening bloodbath."

The imagery is the last thing Lucas wants to think about after eating. He frowns, picking at the skin on his palm.

"Me? I have two of you. And I don't know if you noticed this either—never know, with a pretty boy like you, how much of that brain actually works—but I only get one victor. We all only get one. Two tributes, one victor. I can only bring one home." He takes another sip of wine, letting this sink in. "So yes, perhaps you're picking up on the fact that I'm putting most of my eggs into your obnoxiously self-righteous basket. Because like you, I'm trying to go for the best chance I got of bringing one back home to District 10. And you are a lot more of a contender than her."

Despite the compliments layered somewhere within the lecture, Lucas only finds himself growing more furious. Just another example of how unfair all of this actually is—another aspect of their disgusting, hellish world that he can't repair. "So that's it, then. Jade's just sacrificed on our behalf. No questions asked."

"Listen to me," Harley snaps, growing tired of the argument. "I have been at this for years now. You think I enjoy sending kids to their death, knowing they have no chance? I don't."

"Then maybe you could try!"

"Every year I do!" Harley slams his hand down on the table, shaking the wood. Lucas backs off a bit. "Every year, I work my ass off for a couple of gangly, unprepared children who march off to their deaths. I'm the one that has to face their parents the next year. I'm the one who has to do it all over again."

Lucas swallows his resentment, wishing he could write off the truth of Harley's words. Wishing he could withhold his sympathy but knowing, deep down, Harley is just another victim of the Capitol's sick world-building. Another person who is helpless to the situation and deserves some sympathy.

"So forgive me if I'm trying to shape up a tribute who for the first time in decades actually has a chance of bringing back a win for 10." Harley downs the rest of his drink, getting to his feet and raising his hands in surrender. "Sorry if that's so beyond reprehensible."

Lucas sits there seething as Harley wanders around him, muttering some unflattering comments under his breath. Finally, he gets to his feet as well, whipping around and crossing his arms.

"I want you to focus on Jade."

Harley looks at him, before bursting into laughter. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard me." Lucas is deadly serious, raising his eyebrows. "You said I have a shot, okay. So let me have that shot. Focus on building up the person you've deemed doesn't, put them on the same playing field as me."

"Not how it works, Goldie," he says condescendingly. "You really think your opinion has any weight in this decision?"

"It should! I think that as the person going out there and fighting for my life, my opinions should have some merit! My wants—!"

Harley cracks up, raising an eyebrow in Lucas's direction. "Your wants? Did you just say your wants?"

Lucas hesitates, opening his mouth to continue but suddenly uncertain. He closes it, standing his ground.

"You don't have wants," Harley spits, approaching him and leaning in close. He narrows his eyes, shaking his head. "You have _responsibilities._ I've watched you, Friar, I've been briefed. You think I don't know about the deadbeat parents? The Hub visits? Feeding your scrappy friend's entire family and being the _animal whisperer_ or whatever the fuck it is they call you?"

It's hard to refute statements that are objectively true. Lucas averts his gaze, swallowing hard and glaring at the wall behind him.

"I don't think you have ever, once in your seventeen years, thought about what you _want_." Harley stares him down, an equal match of fire and anger that isn't backing down any time soon. "Lucky for you, it's quite simple now."

Lucas meets his eyes again. Harley is close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, the power that got him through his own Games very clear in his intense glare.

"You have one want now. I'll share it with you: survive. And let me tell you, kid, I'm going to do everything I can to get you it. But that means sacrificing some niceties, and not throwing away your only shot by talking down to the one man who can help you like you're on some God damn white horse of sanctimoniousness." He looks him over, shrugging. "You don't do that, then there's nothing I can do for you."

There's nothing left to say. After a moment Harley backs off, leaving Lucas alone to fume in the suite.

* * *

Despite his reluctance, Lucas decides to go along with Harley's strategies. He needs all the advice he can get regardless of how rude his mentor is in the process of giving it, and he can absorb all the necessary information and play along without letting Jade fall through the cracks. Each night after dinner when Harley leaves them alone, the two of them stay up late in the living room and brainstorm together, Lucas passing on all the tips he learned and hoping she'll be able to put them to use.

During the day, they stay friendly but don't interact much when Harley is around. Luckily, Jade isn't completely alone, having seemingly made some friends from some of the middle districts. He's relieved when he heads to the cafeteria for lunch and finds her sitting with the tall, baby-faced boy from 11 and the bubbly blonde from 5, looking more comfortable than he's seen her yet.

The mood doesn't last long. He makes the mistake of passing by where the Careers are sitting, getting an exclusive share of their dagger eyes as he makes his way through.

"Ready for scoring, cowboy?" The feisty blonde—he's learned her name is Maya, which Harley rattles off with mild disdain—gives him a smug look, taking a pointed bite of her fruit as she raises her eyebrows at him. "Don't choke. I'm sure a rope trick will be very impressive to these city folk."

The other Career girl giggles, smirking in his direction. The largest Career, a behemoth of a guy and Maya's district counterpart, looks over his shoulder to glare at him.

Out of all of them, he's the one Lucas wants most desperately to avoid. Maya's annoying, but there's a fire in her eyes that indicates there's still something distinctly human inside of her. With this guy, all he can see is blind determination coupled with the usual bloodlust of the Careers.

He decides silence speaks louder than works, ignoring their commentary as he continues to find a place to sit. No looking back. Besides, considering Harley's scoring strategy he's laid out for him, he doesn't exactly have anything intimidating to say in his defense.

When the crew of their team for District 10 are gathered in the living room suite that evening watching the scores roll in, Lucas can't help but feel nervous. Others have decided he's worth pinning a target on, and he's got to do everything he can to evade it. No matter how fruitless or confusing it seems.

He tries not to let Maya's score of 10 intimidate him too much. He believes her threat that she'll skewer him easily—he doesn't need to imagine what it actually takes to accomplish such a task and how she showed that off in scoring. The 11 that the male tribute from District 3 pulls in is more surprising, causing interested murmurs to break out amongst their group.

Looking at his photo on the screen and examining his pale blue eyes, devoid of any emotion aside from resolve and a little bit of calculation, Lucas isn't shocked at all that the gangly mayor's boy from 3 manifested such a score. But he determines he should evade him at all costs.

From there, many of the scores range in the middle of the pack as they usually do. No one exceeds past an 8, and some of the lower scores elicit grimaces from the team around him. When the girl from 5 only pulls a score of 4, Angela clicks her tongue in disappoint, nudging his shoulder from her spot behind him on the back of the couch.

"Always a shame when that happens," she says wisely, shaking her head. "Have to wonder what they even did to get such a low one."

"Hmm," Lucas hums, taking a sip of his water.

The kids from District 9 receive their scores—a score of 8 for the male and 7 for the female, respectively—before Caesar clears his throat, shuffling his papers to move forward.

"From District 10," he begins, the team falling silent as Lucas's portrait illuminates the left side of the screen. He grimaces to himself, hating seeing his own portrait more than he absolutely has to. He knows it's him up there but the way it's glossed up, how removed it makes him seem, it doesn't feel like he's looking at himself at all. Or if he is, he regrets the fact that that's how he comes off to everyone he meets.

Considering how terrified Jade was of him when they first met, maybe he shouldn't be so stunned.

"Lucas Friar," he says, pausing a moment to build suspense. Then Caesar squints slightly, rereading the page for a brief second to check that he's reading correctly. Lucas catches the uncertainty in the showman's expression as he reports the score, somewhat expecting it. "A score of 3."

Dead silence in the room. He hears Angela shift behind him. He keeps his eyes on the screen, trying not to react in any sort of outstanding way.

"Well, it's not…" Angela starts quietly, searching for the optimistic view on things. "We can still work with it. We can."

Nobody in the room looks very convinced. Jade is frowning at him, as if she's trying to transfer some of her evident panic to him so he'll react in an appropriate fashion. He wants to reassure her, to tell her that everything is going to be okay, but he knows he can't. So he says nothing.

Caesar barrels on anyway, not waiting for the viewers at home to catch up.

"For Jade Beamon," he continues as the photo of him disappears and one of his fellow tribute lights up the right.

The mention of her name gathers her attention, pulling her focus away from Lucas and towards the screen. Her eyes are wide with fear.

"A score of 7."

Lucas can feel some of the tension in the room dissipate. The team erupts into cheers, applauding her for a job well done and her stylist already rambling off ways they can sell this to the sponsors. Jade seems to be in shock, only smiling when Angela reaches forward to pat her shoulder.

She looks to Lucas on the couch next to her, mirroring the grin he offers her. He knows how nervous she was about working with the knives, but it seems like it paid off in the long run. "Nice throwing, partner."

Her smile widens, a blush crawling up her cheeks.

Although the elephant in the room still remains as the group of them try to forget about his score, Lucas isn't concerned. Glancing across the room, he makes eye contact with Harley who is watching the celebration with mild interest.

It hurt his pride, but it was always the plan to go in with a low score. No matter how badly the Careers wanted to paint him as a threat, this obviously weak score is going to make it a tough sell to the other tributes who are mostly just trying to stay alive. He's not worth picking a fight with, and with his lack of skills according to his score, he'll be more of a danger to himself than anyone else.

Lucas has no idea what score he would've actually gotten if he'd gone in there trying. But that's not what the strategy called for.

Ever so subtly, Harley gives him a nod. Mission accomplished.

* * *

Two more days until the arena.

It's what Harley reminds them of at breakfast each morning, how many days they have left to prepare. It's what Jade ruminates on when she grows exhausted of their late night brainstorms, dreading how quickly the clock seems to tick away.

It's what the Careers discuss eagerly as he passes by their table, listing off all the tributes they're going to axe in the bloodbath. Normally, he attempts to ignore it, but the morning he hears them name Jade in the midst of all the others they're aiming for, it suddenly becomes impossible to forget.

Despite how hard he's attempted to keep it at bay, the rage at the unfairness of it all continues to build up inside him the closer and closer they get to the arena. Rage at the Capitol for doing this in the first place, rage at the Careers for treating it like a game, rage at Harley for continuing to write off his fellow tribute who deserves just as much a chance of survival as he does.

He doesn't want to be angry. He never has. But somehow, the Games already seem to be changing him for the worst.

"Interviews," Harley mutters at dinner, long after they've finished eating. He's rubbing his chin lazily and staring up towards the ceiling, processing Jade's query. "What about them?"

Jade glances in Lucas's direction, searching for back up. He shrugs, keeping his focus down on his empty plate so he can resist the urge to chuck it at his mentor.

"Do you have any tips? I mean, I don't know about Lucas, but I've never been on TV before. And maybe if there's an angle I should try to go for—,"

"Your angle, sweet pea, is just that," he states, sitting up in his chair. "You're a sweet kid, never been in such a big city. The Capitol fascinates you, but it's overwhelming to take in. You're innocent, you don't deserve to be here about to embark in all this. Then talk about some of your hobbies. Something cutesy. They'll like that."

"Don't you think that's a little overdone?" Lucas says tensely, raising his eyebrows. Harley shifts his gaze to him, preemptively exhausted with his attitude. "I mean, it won't be very memorable, will it?"

Jade's nerves are back in her features again. Harley shrugs. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."

"Angela says the most important thing we can do is be memorable. That's how we'll get sponsors."

"Well, Miss Angela isn't your mentor, is she?" Harley gets to his feet, dismissing the argument before it even really starts. Jade rises as well, figuring the meal is essentially over and she's not going to get much more help.

Lucas stares down at the table, gritting his teeth and trying his hardest not to let his anger take control of the situation. But he's already lost most of the control he ever had to begin with, so there's not much holding it back.

"I'm thinking a really effective strategy would be to serve it right back to them," he says simply, tapping his fingers on the table.

Both Jade and Harley freeze, heading in opposite directions but catching the comment. Harley turns around to face him, squinting at him. "Pardon?"

Lucas gets to his feet, holding his arms out and shrugging. "You know, tell it like it is. Sure, all this is glamourous and they're really putting us up, but it's all just a front for the fact that they're going to send us off to murder each other in less than forty-eight hours. I mean, sure, it's not topical, but it sure would be memorable."

Jade is watching the exchange with bated breath, clearly not anticipating this sort of conversation. But Harley sees right through him. It's not Jade's interview he's reflecting on—he's referring to his own game, throwing his own chances, and Harley can hear it loud and clear through the casual words.

"Memorable or not," Harley says sharply, his tone more serious than usual. "You don't rail against the Capitol. Least of all kids from a crapshoot district like ours."

"Why not?"

"Don't play stupid. You know why. It's the same reason we get to live in these fancy rooms and indulge in their gourmet food and walk amongst them for a week and a half. Because it's your job to play along, and don't ask questions, if you want that chance of survival. Don't bite the hand that feeds you, regardless of how genuine it is, idiot."

Lucas's irritability feels so engrained in him at this point it just feels like another piece of his biology. He nods, raising his hands in surrender. "You're right. You're right, my mistake."

Harley rolls his eyes, pointing at both of them. "Rest. You should at least be coherent when you embarrass yourselves on live television tomorrow."

Jade backs off, heading towards her room. Lucas glares down at the dinner table, the shiny, pristine products of the Capitol—of someone else's backbreaking, silent labor—gleaming back at him mockingly. Reminding him how trapped he is, what a good, obedient tribute he's going to be, how much is riding on him to be good enough so that everyone else can continue to survive.

In an instant, he picks up the plate and throws it across the room. It hits the wall right next to Harley and shatters, causing him to duck away while Jade gasps in surprise behind them.

Tense silence fills the room. Harley straightens up and faces them again, expression muted as he pulls a shard of glass from his cheek.

"Oops," Lucas says flatly, shrugging. "My mistake."

Harley rolls the shard between his fingers, blood pooling at the cut it left behind on his face. "Jade, would you give the two of us a second?"

She doesn't respond to Harley, stepping down towards Lucas and watching him with concern. "Lucas, are you okay?"

"Jade. Out."

"No, it's okay," Lucas says politely, plastering on a smile. "She can stay. It's not as if she doesn't know you're favoring me over her. Let her experience how cool and enjoyable our little one-on-ones are."

Harley approaches them, giving Jade a warning look. "Jade. You're dismissed."

She looks reluctant as she backs off, evidently concerned for Lucas's well-being. Considering how cool and mostly collected he's been up to this point, it doesn't surprise him that this seems like a big change for her. He feels bad for worrying her, but with the anger winning out at the moment he can't bring himself to care too much.

Instead, he offers her a sickly sweet smile, nodding her off. Hoping she realizes how fake it is, even if it's not directed at her.

Harley stares him down as Jade retreats, both of them waiting for the tell-tale sound of the door slamming shut. Neither of them move for a long moment.

Lucas lunges first, reaching for the butcher knife left on the table. He just manages to grab it in his fingers before Harley pulls him back by the collar, gripping his arm and yanking him away. The two of them struggle violently for a couple moments, Lucas attempting to wriggle out of his grasp and gripping the knife with everything he's got.

"Let me go!" he shouts, screaming when Harley pins his arm back and keeps his wrist extended far from either of them, the knife useless in his hands. "Let me go! I'm going to—,"

"You're going to what?" Harley challenges, tightening his hold around him. He's got him locked in a hold that prevents much movement—Lucas figures he can't be too surprised. Harley was their last victor in decades, and he didn't win it out of sheer luck. "What are you going to do? Kill yourself? Off yourself now so Jade can go on to magically suddenly become a viable candidate and live to see another day?"

"I can do what I want. It's my body. It's my life!"

"You want to end it? Fine! I can't stop you once you get in that arena." Harley's voice is severe in his ear. He puts pressure on his arm, bullying Lucas into dropping the knife. "But if you don't show up on that pedestal when that bell rings and the Games begin, you're going to cause more trouble than you already do."

Lucas huffs in frustration as the knife slips from his fingers, hitting the floor at their feet. "What are they going to do about it?"

"What are they going to do about it?" Harley repeats mockingly, shoving Lucas away from him. He stumbles until he regains his stability, clenching his fists and whipping around to face his mentor. Right now, he looks like he'd rather have any other kid from the district as his mentee than Lucas James Friar. "They're going slaughter you, jackass!"

Lucas can't argue with that. He shakes his head, scuffing his heel against the tile floor.

"And if you don't watch it, if you don't take that hit, they're going to take it out on anyone else they can get their hands on. Which is to say, everyone." Harley gives him a challenging look. "Your little friend? Ashby or whatever? Watch your mouth or just see what they do to him."

A wave of panic shoots through him. "They wouldn't touch him. He doesn't have anything to do with this."

"But he has everything to do with you. You got friends? Family? They're the Capitol's now. And if you fuck up, not only are you not going to see them ever again, but they're going to take the brunt of your belligerence."

Lucas is out of options. He's out of alternatives to the inevitable, and the fire is slowing draining out of him, giving way to exhaustion.

Harley paces, absentmindly tearing at the Velcro on the end of his glove and peeling it off his hand. He sighs, allowing the skin to breathe. From the distance between them, Lucas can just make out the discoloration of his skin on his palm, usually concealed beneath the gloves. A scar from his own hard fought game, still lingering after all these years.

"I know what you're feeling. I do, alright?" He slips the glove back on, stretching his fingers. His face twitches in pain before resetting to its neutral, disapproving expression. "I had the same kinda delusions of grandeur. My sister? She paid for it. You don't want to end up doing the same."

Harley doesn't offer anything else. He glances at the floor and picks up the butcher knife, pointing it haphazardly in Lucas's direction.

"You're angry. You are full of it, aren't you?" When Lucas doesn't immediately respond he continues anyway, smirking lightly. "That, I can work with."

Harley sticks the knife in the tabletop.

"That anger? It's going to keep you alive."

* * *

Having made it through the interviews without completely humiliating himself, Lucas finds himself mostly relieved as night descends on their final day in the Capitol. He changes into his night clothes and sits out in the living area, settling by the window and watching the colorful display of frivolity as the citizens of the Capitol celebrate the Games.

He's never seen such an outright depiction of spectacle before. It's jubilant to the point of irritation, considering what exactly they're all excited about.

"Night, Lucas," Jade says softly as she heads towards her room from the shower. She smiles at him, hesitating for a moment to glance out the window behind him.

He returns the beam. "Night. Get some rest."

"Don't think that'll happen," she says blankly, tearing her eyes away from the festivities. She continues to her room, nerves obviously intending to keep her up well into the night.

He can't let her go without one last attempt to offer her some comfort. "Jade."

She turns around, locking eyes with him.

His smile is genuine, nodding in her direction. "I'll see you in there."

Jade is a bit surprised. He wonders if she figures he forgot about their initial agreement, or if he had decided he was better off without her. But the reminder seems to do its job—her shoulders loosen and she grins, nodding back.

He watches her go, disappearing behind her door. Suddenly feeling a similar level of fatigue, he takes one last glance out to the crowd below. Resentment is sour in the back of his throat.

Without looking back, he rises and heads towards his room. Although he knows sleep is unlikely, he can't stand another minute surrounded by everything else.

He sighs as he comes to stand by his bed, gazing up at the accent wall that's supposed to mirror whatever aspect of the world he'd like it to as he drifts off to sleep. He hasn't bothered to fiddle around with it since he got here, but currently he wouldn't mind a distraction. Reaching for the remote on his side table, he clicks through the potential settings he could pretend he's inhabiting—a rainforest, some grand ballroom, an evergreen forest misty with dew.

He stops when he lands on the last option, his breath catching in his throat.

It's farmland—miles and miles of it, seemingly going on forever. Cows graze contentedly in the fields. The ambience is relatively muted, with the wind breezing through the long grass and sheep braying in the distance being the only prominent sound. If he didn't know any better, he could be standing on the Miller's porch overlooking the district.

It's not home, but it's the closest thing he has to it. And the last remnants of it he may ever see again. Lucas slides into a sitting position against the side of his bed, wrapping his arms around his knees and absorbing the imagery in front of him.

Harley was right, he has responsibilities. If he doesn't want to let any of them down, he has to be at his absolute best when he steps off that pedestal and into the arena.

Closing his eyes, he leans back and exhales a sigh, willing himself to be calm. Willing himself to be braver than he actually is.

* * *

The journey to the arena is quiet, tension making up for the lack of conversation. It fills the aircraft, suffocating them by eating up all the oxygen between them. No room left for small talk.

Lucas hopes to say goodbye to Jade before they board but they're separated far too quickly, so he compensates by assuring himself they'll see each other when the Games begin. After making it out of the bloodbath alive, reuniting with her is his second priority. Get some supplies, get his fellow tribute, and get as far away from the Careers as possible. After that, they'll go from there.

He's standing alone in the transport room, trying to ignore the glass cylinder waiting for him at the other end of the space. He zips up his jacket and takes a deep breath, searching again for that bravery he's not sure he has.

The door opens behind him, causing him to mentally prepare some choice words for Harley if he has any last minute insufferable commentary. But when he turns out to deliver it, it's not his mentor there to greet him.

"Asked Harley if I could come see you off." Angela steps forward, smiling genially. "I hope that's okay."

Lucas nods. "Preferable, actually."

Angela laughs, approaching him and immediately setting to work as only a stylist can. She nitpicks at his jacket and reaches up to fix his hair, brushing it from his forehead.

"All this talk about your pretty face, let's make sure you're looking your most presentable," she jokes. She frowns and licks her thumb, fussing with one of the notorious cowlicks on the top of his head. "Never going to get that one to stay down, am I?"

"Don't see how it'll matter in a few minutes."

Angela nods, conceding this point. The two of them stand in silence for a few moments, prolonging the inevitable for as long as possible.

Finally, Angela sighs, taking his shoulders and locking eyes with him.

"You are stronger than them. You have what it takes. Don't worry about what's going on here—with us or with your friends at home. Leave that to us. You, you just focus on staying alive."

Lucas nods along, forcing himself to listen. Forcing himself to soak up as much of her encouragement and infectious confidence as he possibly can.

"If anyone can win it for 10, it'll be you." She squeezes his shoulder bracingly, before recognition colors her features. "Oh, I almost forgot. You're leaving without your tribute token."

Lucas frowns, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. He watches as she ruffles through her pockets. "I don't have one."

"You didn't," she corrects him, finding what she's looking for and exhaling in relief. She clasps it tightly in her hand, smiling as she meets his eyes again. "They sent it just this morning. Harley gave it to me right before I came down."

She holds her hand out, palm facing up and showing him the small, bronze nickel. Lucas can't help but gasp, blinking a couple of times to make sure he's not hallucinating.

"They said you'd be surprised, apparently. But it's yours to take with you," she says, examining Pappy Joe's buffalo nickel for herself. "Pretty, at least."

"It was my grandfather's. My mother said it was—,"

Above them, the speaker crackles, stunning him into silence. A pleasant, neutral woman reminds them that there are sixty seconds left to enter the tube.

"Regardless," Angela says, clearing her throat. She reaches up and pulls the collar of his jacket down, unzipping the inside pocket and slipping the nickel inside. As she rezips the jacket she pats his chest, pressing the nickel up against his heart. "It's with you. We all are."

Lucas isn't prepared. He's not prepared for the emotion, or the harsh reality, or the violence awaiting him feet above his head.

"Go on, animal whisperer," she says with a tight laugh, forcing the best smile she can manage. But it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "See you on the other side."

Lucas nods, accepting the hand she offers him. They stand together, frozen until the speaker warns him of fifteen seconds remaining. She squeezes his one last time before he whips around, letting go of her and heading to the cylinder.

The moment he steps inside it closes behind him, sealing him in and eliminating all chances he had of escape. He spins around to lock eyes with Angela, his vision blurring as terrified tears well up in his eyes in spite of his resolve not to feel any fear.

She gives him a proud nod. Slowly, the cylinder begins to rise, disappearing into the ground.

In the darkness, Lucas steels himself for everything that's ahead. Escape isn't an option—it never was to begin with, and he knows that. He can't give up, just like he told Asher he wouldn't. He has promises to keep, people to protect, and a place to go home to, as the nickel his heart is pounding against reminds him.

Lucas Friar has always been good at survival. Only now is the time to really prove it, or else die trying.

And as a true survivalist knows all too well, dying is never an option.

* * *

 **A/N:** HOWDY FRIENDS, sorry for the delay! If you're still reading along with this fic thanks for continuing along with me and waiting, and if you're new to the party, welcome! :)

Next up, we'll spend some time with Maya in the glamour of District 2. Oh, the life of a Career...


	3. Maya Hart, Blonde Beauty -- Part 1

Despite her most determined effort, all Maya can think about is how she can't breathe.

She attempts to focus her thoughts in other directions, away from the way her chest is constricting. How she pulled off another impressive display in weapons seminar yesterday, earning her another star on her transcript and once again maintaining her position as top of her class. How her less impressive failure on their Panem history exam is jeopardizing her good standing, and with only one more year to go to stay on top she doesn't see how it matters anyway. How dinner at Carla's had been so satisfying when she hasn't had a satisfying meal in her own home in years. How her dwelling always smells like saffron and no matter how harshly she scrubs at herself in the bath she cannot seem to get the scent out of her pores.

Still, her mind drifts back to the way her lungs are tightening, seemingly shrinking but also fighting to bust out of her ribcage. Fighting against her the way she's so well-trained to fight against everything else, begging for mercy in a way she's just not inclined to give.

She attempts to concentrate on the spider-like cracks etched into the side of the basin, murky grey through the water and blurred with the lack of oxygen. It's entrancing in some ways, how erratically yet unintentionally the hairline fissures have stretched across the stone. Powerful but unpredictable, not motivated by any decision of its own.

Part of her wants to capture it. It's the exact kind of natural beauty she used to find so fascinating, constantly scribbling on spare parchment and doodling in her schoolbooks in an attempt to recreate it.

But it's been years since she did anything like that. It's a ghost, floating around to haunt her about all the things that don't matter anymore.

The near frozen chill of the water pricks her face, the only thing keeping her cognizant enough to fight off the edges of black tunneling in around her eyes. She screws them shut. Stronger than the pain in her chest is panic, bubbling up in her lungs to replace the oxygen as her body attempts to compensate, to understand why the hell she's putting herself through this torture.

Only a second longer. A second longer of holding her breath. Because sometimes, a second more is all you need to survive.

She emerges from the water with a desperate gasp, choking on the air that scrambles to reenter her lungs. Her back tingles as she falls against the cold side of the tub, muscles tight with adrenaline and causing her to shiver involuntarily. She's racked with coughs as her body struggles to reconcile this new normal from the previous one she just endured, almost as if in the few short minutes it went without oxygen it's forgotten how to process it entirely.

When she feels strong enough to open her eyes, she glances at the ancient clock pressed up against the corner of the room. The second hand ticks past twelve to greet a new minute in the never ending march of time, and Maya allows herself to exhale as she does the mental math in her head.

Five minutes and twenty-two seconds. Fourteen seconds longer than last week. Two and a half minutes longer than the average human, and thus, the average tribute.

Two and half minutes more prepared for victory.

Her arms continue to shake as she pulls herself out of the tub, wrapping herself in the worn towel on the rack. It's itchy and bristly and only offers her the comfort of insulation, but she's too elated to care. Although her body may not be so grateful to her now, she knows in the future in a moment where it really counts, she'll be ready. It'll thank her later.

Emerging out of the wash room and into the tiny hallway, Maya disappears into her room without comment from her mother. She doesn't know if she's home yet, but she doesn't want to risk it either way. Another stilted conversation or exchange of flat niceties neither of them mean, or worse, a lecture about nearly drowning herself in the bathtub.

All of the above, she could do without.

She slips into her night clothes and runs her hands through her hair, scowling in frustration as she appraises herself in the mirror above her desk. It's cracked from years ago and a memory she can't recall, someone throwing a temper tantrum about something and the glass taking the brunt of it. She hasn't been able to see her own reflection properly in ages, but money is tight as it always is—even in the wealthiest district—and there's never been a question of whether or not to replace it.

For what it's worth, Maya prefers it shattered. Although her classmates tells her all the time and boys in her year and below ogle her when she walks down the halls to the amusement of Carla and Renee, seeing herself as beautiful seems like a gross misrepresentation.

When she looks around the cracks and locks eyes with her reflection, all she can see is the hardened glare of her icy blue eyes and the scratches on her cheeks from weapons training. The petite frame always dwarfed by her hand-me-down clothes and the stringy wet hair of a girl who could be pushing herself harder. Who could be doing better.

It's a relief when she shifts her gaze, pulling open the dingy desk drawer. She retrieves a small leather bound notebook from the other scraps, opening it and turning to the most recently used page. Along the in-seam, the remnants of torn pages offer another ghostly reminder of the sketches that used to occupy so much of her existence.

Scanning down the page of her times in her untidy scrawl, she finds the next blank space and jots down the date with her new updated record. It fills her with pride to look at the duration of breathlessness inch upward the further down the page she goes, a testament to the amount of work she puts into keeping herself alive. Making her a viable tribute, a worthy future victor.

It's in her blood, she reminds herself. It's her destiny, even though she has never been one to believe in such frivolous concepts.

In only one more year, she's going to prove it.

* * *

Maya finishes tying her hair back out of her face into its usual tight, efficient bun when her mother knocks lightly on the door the next morning. It's not out of place for Katy to stop in for any relevant announcements she may want her daughter to know before she sets out for work for the rest of the daylight hours, yet Maya still never quite knows how to compose herself when she appears.

"Renee is here," she informs her softly. "You two planning to walk to school?"

"I would assume so, as we do every morning."

Katy clearly feels a sting from the impatience dripping from Maya's tone, but she doesn't comment on it. She merely crosses her arms, tossing her hair out of her face. "Big day today, isn't it? Assembly, right?"

Maya nods, applying the last bit of liner to accent her eyes. Make-up isn't cheap in the districts, and they're certainly not up to date on the latest Capitol fads by any means. But appreciation for the simpler items in the supply of make-up tools is one of the few things she and her mother can seem to find in common. There's always enough eyeliner and mascara to go around between them and the one thing they splurge to replace when they run out, regardless of how tightly they're walking the line financially.

Perhaps, she figures, it's a shared appreciation for how helpful it is in concealing vulnerability.

"I'm sure it will be as riveting as it is every year," Maya says, aiming for aloof. She rises to her feet and grabs her burlap bag from her mattress, school supplies clanging noisily as she drapes it over her shoulder. "Suppose I should do my best not to be late."

Katy hesitates as she pushes past her into the hallway. It's a surprise when she speaks up again, stopping Maya in her tracks.

"I guess next year will be a little more exciting," Katy asks curiously. She doesn't sound particularly excited herself. Neither of them turn around to look each other in the eye, maintaining that preference of avoiding openness.

Maya swallows, continuing her trek to the door. "I guess it will."

The two of them part ways for the day without saying goodbye. It doesn't feel the slightest bit out of routine.

As promised, Renee is waiting on the front step when Maya steps out of the house. She jumps as her friend emerges, hopping to her feet and following her down the steps.

"Your eyeliner is smudged."

Maya's hand instinctively reaches up to touch the corner of her eye, but she stops herself a second later. Caring about what others have to say is one of the most obvious displays of weakness, and she can't allow herself to fall victim to such a stupid, meaningless thing.

"Good," she declares, making a point of smudging it a bit on her own accord. "Nothing wrong with coming off a bit unsettled. Keeps them on their toes."

She doesn't have to explain the vague pronoun. Both of them attend the specialized academy for training and thus hear such generalized statements in their lessons all the time. It's almost a language all its own, the way the coaches and teachers speak to the students at the academy. If it's what keeps them alive and home with victories for the district, Maya supposes, then it must be doing its job.

"I don't know how you can get away with that," Renee complains. "Look like a mess but still look so pretty. If I walked out of my dwelling with charcoal smudged around my eyes, I'm pretty sure people would say I've lost my marbles."

"Training at the academy, it's not out of the realm of possibility."

Renee whines, dragging her feet across the gravel as they walk along the mountainside. "Oh, stop. It's so easy for you to act so cool about it when you've already got it. Miss Blonde Beauty, and everything."

Maya almost shoves Renee off the pathway out of sheer instinct. She hates that stupid nickname the boys gave her in fourth grade—resents it with every fiber of her being almost as strongly as she resents growing up in this stupid town pretending that they're better off than everyone else and not scraping to get by. She hates how it reduces her down to the most basic, primal trait that men think a woman should possess, abhors how it demeans her drive and talent and tough constitution that she works so painstakingly to keep up.

All she wanted was the raw power and sheer strength of her father, and instead she got the lovely complexion and disgusting softness of her mother. Attributes that are worthless in the real world and even more worthless in the hard, disciplined reality of District 2.

"Rather look crazy and capable than beautiful and bumbling," she hisses, keeping her eyes trained on the ground. Renee sighs wistfully, obviously not on the same page.

Glancing at her out of the corner of her eye, Maya doesn't see what Renee has to be jealous of anyway. She's just as pretty as everyone claims she is, with her cinnamon curls and consistently bright eyes. She may not have the grit necessary to rise to the top of the heap within their academy, and Maya would dread seeing Renee get herself slaughtered in the Games, but she's much more comfortable in her own skin than Maya thinks she ever could be. There's a special kind of clout in that all on its own.

They pass by another group of district kids heading off the school in their shabby cotton uniforms, going in the opposite direction towards the traditional school house. Sometimes Maya wonders what it would be like to be in their shoes, opting for the stone mason career rather than tribute or Peacekeeper and forgoing the necessary violence for resigned poverty. If it weren't for the heaviness of expectations to uphold weighing on her shoulders, perhaps she'd be heading in that direction with schoolbooks in her bag rather than practice knives.

"Finally," a sharp voice calls out as they approach the stone steps to the academy. "About time you all dragged your asses in."

Carla is seated on the base of one of the broad columns lining the front of the school building, lounging nonchalantly as if she owns the carved rock underneath her. Considering how often everyone notes her supposed good looks, Maya has no idea how her closest ally in the walls of the academy can escape the same commentary. Carla is far more captivating than her, with her long dark hair and sharp, intrusive glare. She's an undeniable black widow, deceptively alluring but full of unmistakable authority within her lithe frame.

Unlike Renee, Carla is an obvious match for the rigorous curriculum of the academy training regimen. It's also obvious why Maya was so drawn to her from the first day they met at the age of twelve when training began. She wouldn't call her a friend—she wouldn't call any of them her friends. But she's a definite acquaintance, a strategic alliance born out of a shared desire for strength they could not find anywhere else in the pathetic shambles of their district around them.

That, and the strange conflicted feelings that overwhelm her whenever Carla is in her presence have always been a violent motivator. It makes her work harder, run faster, fight crueler to stay one step ahead of her in their race to the Games. She wouldn't know what to do with them any other way, and so far it's done her a lot of favors in staying on top.

"Dragging your feet like that, you're going to be lucky if you make it off the platform before someone shoots you dead in an arena." She appraises both of them as they reach her level, slipping off the column. She eyes Maya critically, raising her eyebrows. "You look like garbage, Hart."

She doesn't even flinch. "And what's your excuse?"

After a moment, Carla's judgmental glare softens into a smirk. She drapes her arm around Maya's shoulders, leading their trio into the school.

* * *

The musty auditorium is loud with the murmuring of dozen of children, increasing in volume as they attempt to keep up conversations over one another. It's cold and damp with disuse, the administration only ever pulling open the rusted doors for the annual pre-Reaping assembly.

Seated down in the front of the middle section, Maya gazes around her at the other students gathered for the only time they come together all term. It's strange to remember that there are kids even younger than her in attendance, starting their Career journey from the ripe age of twelve just like she did. Looking at them in the back rows, hardly paying attention to the rest of the world around them and goofing off with one another, she can't remember what it was like to be that small. To be that free, not consumed with dissatisfaction or other responsibilities.

"Look at them," Carla mutters, eyes trained to the couple of rows in front of them. "So smug."

Maya's attention shifts to the students assembled in front of them, the graduating class of the coming year. All eighteen. All harsher and bigger and far more prepared than she'll ever be for what's ahead of them. She subconsciously wonders if she'll be able to complete the transformation with only a year left—if one day before her last Reaping she'll wake up with unbridled confidence and fortified muscles and a sharp, unflinching look in her eyes that tells the world she'll crush them underfoot if she has to the way all the graduates seem to have.

At present, she feels so far away from that. She doesn't see how it could be possible.

Renee shrugs, reading Carla's statement as an invitation for conversation. "Makes sense why they would be. This is their big day after all. After this, it's like, who cares?"

Maya examines the herd of Final Years closely. All things considered, many of them seem about as relaxed and unbothered as the rest of the grades beneath them. With the way their district works in how they pick their tributes—the highest ranking girl and boy of each graduating class announced within the academy during the general assembly and then rigged to seem like a surprise during the actual Reaping—it's unsurprising that some of them know they have no chance in hell of being selected. No potential glory or gore to obsess over. They'll just continue their training at the Peacekeeper barracks or pick up jobs in the masonry, and that'll be that.

She wonders what it must be like to live in another district. No specialized academy for training, no way to prepare for the Games unless you take it upon yourself which is likely illegal anyway. No good way to train in a district where you may actually need it, where the fate of the chosen tributes each year isn't a predetermined conclusion shared amongst the halls of the school house. Where the Reaping means something more than assembling in the hot sun for an hour and pretending to be surprised. Where every day is spent worrying about whether chance alone is going to throw you into a bloodbath with no way of knowing in advance.

Given her options and despite how much she resents it, Maya finds herself happy to be sitting in the training academy of District 2. Reclined comfortably in an auditorium chair, knowing her chances of being a tribute in a year are as good or bad as she wants them to be.

No surprises in District 2. She's never liked surprises.

Their attention is drawn to the front as their principal heads out onto the stage, ancient wood floors creaking under his weight. He approaches the sole podium, clearing his throat into the microphone until silence settles over the crowd of students. Behind him, the full assemblage of academy professors files into line. All of them wearing matching hardened glares, as they always do.

Although the overall aura of the gathering is unwelcoming, master of the harshest expression goes without a doubt to Coach Fanucchi. He has an acute understanding of how such a specific combination of disinterest and severity can cripple a student from one simple glance, yet still make them determined and desperate enough to continue to fight for his approval. Maya knows this all too well from the many years she's spent under his tutelage as weapons master. She thinks it's probably the reason she respects him the most out of all the instructors on the stage.

Principal Jackson greets them all with limited warmth before launching into the agenda for the morning assembly, listing off all of the end of term announcements. The attentiveness in the room drops with every mundane notice about returning their checked out equipment and reapplication for next term. Maya picks at one of her fingernails. Next to her, Carla lets out a pointed sigh.

"As you all know, each year we elect to uplift our students who have shown consistent excellence and strong drive to a greater level of honor." It's almost as if a whip cracks, the way the tension in the room heightens. "The young man and woman in their final year who have demonstrated the highest level of proficiency and ferocity amongst their peers are chosen to represent our great district in the coming Hunger Games, acting as our tributes in the pursuit of glory grander than any other."

Maya has heard the opening speech before the selection of the tributes more times than she can count, yet every year it affects her even more than before. As her principal speaks, she feels an instinct stirring deep in the pit of her stomach as cold adrenaline snakes through her veins. Although she knows he's not addressing her it doesn't matter—it never has.

The words are meant for her. The grand glory is going to be hers someday. A part of her is impatient, resenting the fact that she has to wait a whole other year despite how unprepared she feels for it in moments of weakness.

"With this tradition in place, it is important to remember that our protocol is unlike the proceedings of our sibling districts. This comes only from a shared sense of a responsibility, and a willingness to acquiesce to the necessary confidentiality such a proceeding requires. Please stand."

Maya rises with the rest of the auditorium, turning to the right to face the carved stone plaque hanging on the brick above the seats. The emblem of their district, a gleaming number two being the only piece of the tablet recently polished.

Many students, herself included, place their hand like claws against their sternum. Nowhere near the heart—that's reserved for the Capitol, so they've been told—but right against the toughest part of the chest, fingernails digging lightly into the skin. It's something taught in the academy from the day they arrive, a pledge to the institution of peace keeping and courage above all else.

It's a sacred gesture of allegiance, almost animalistic in how much pride it instills in them. Maya's heart pounds harder in her chest even in spite of how often she dislikes her district like any other.

In front of her, hands plainly at her sides, Carla lets out a yawn.

"We, the students of District 2," Principal Jackson begins. The students join in as a chorus, repeating the mantra they've rambled off year after year. "Strive to uphold the legacy of our great community. We respect the expectations set before us and work to maintain them. We honor those before us who have brought us unrivaled splendor, and repent for those who have failed in their mission. We acknowledge their shortcomings and swear to rise above them. We pledge ourselves to our great district, and fair warning to those who dare to diminish it."

A brief moment of silence hangs in the air. No one moves an inch. Even the first years in the back have bowed to the intensity of the moment.

"Pledge understood," Jackson finally states, swiveling from the plaque and back to the crowd. "You may be seated."

There's a collective shuffling as the students return to their seats, but the Final Years remain standing without being instructed. It's an unspoken direction that they know comes next, as six previous years of observing ceremonies just like this one has trained them well.

Principal Jackson continues without comment. "Now is the time we announce our next tributes for the annual Hunger Games. Even with fierce competition amongst an impressively spirited and impressively driven class, these two students have proven themselves capable and compelled far beyond the lengths of their peers. Between these two, we expect, it is near impossible that District 2 will finish the year without another round of reward for the community."

A mutter of intrigue from the younger students. Carla rolls her eyes while Renee leans close to murmur in Maya's ear.

"As if they don't say it's near impossible every year."

Maya gives her friend a smirk, shrugging her shoulders lightly. She does have a point that the following is always said when it has been proven to be untrue more than once—the sting felt throughout the district over their communal loss the past three Games does not go unnoticed. It's less so about the respective tributes and what may or may not have worked in their favor to bury them dead in the ground before they reach adulthood, and more so about how embarrassing and aggravating it is to lose yet another Games to some poor, scrappy child from any district past 4 and the heavy shame that comes with it.

Unsuccessful tributes are not mourned in District 2. They are immortalized by their shortcomings, forever remembered by how much time they wasted. How they could've done better.

The very thought makes Maya sick to her stomach. But she knows she'll never end that way. She couldn't. She won't.

She's so lost in her own head, she doesn't even realize Principal Jackson has begun calling names until the unmistakable roar of eighteen year old boys erupts in front of her. There are jovial shoulder shakes and pats on the back as one of their own extracts himself from the seats and makes his way to the stage, a smile on his face that is not so much joyful as it is self-satisfied.

She recognizes the new male tribute as Thor, who she only knows by name due to his ruthless reputation. He's a monster of a boy, tall and calloused and burdened with muscle. With his dark blonde hair and round nose she supposes he could be rather cute, but the malice burned into his expression after years of training negates all of that effortlessly.

"I heard he was second in his class," Renee whispers, watching as Thor lightly shakes Jackson's hand. Her expression is uncertain. "Until he ran his sword through his rival's leg on the first day of weapons training this term."

Carla's eyes have a twinkle to them Maya's rarely seen before. "I heard he can cut a dummy's head clean off with just one swing. No hacking involved."

"It barely missed his fibula. If he had aimed a little deeper they would've had to cut off the other kid's leg."

"So he deserves it," Carla spits. She crosses her arms. "If you're going to let someone else get the upper hand so easily, you don't deserve top spot."

Maya's surprised by how impassioned Carla seems about the disagreement. Mostly because she's hardly impassioned about anything, but also because she's been second fiddle to Maya in their class ranking for years and never said a word about it.

Suddenly, her hands feel cold sitting next to the sharp-eyed girl beside her. She pulls the sleeves of her cardigan down to cover them.

"And for the girls," Principal Jackson starts, returning to his spot at the podium. Thor has taken up residency on the stage behind him, hands clasped behind his back and glowering out through the lights. "Jasmine Gonzalez."

Another round of cheers erupt, these sounding a tad more genuine than Thor's. Jasmine manages to push her way through the row of students congratulating her with pats and claps, jogging to the stairs to join her fellow tribute on the stage. She seems relatively intimidating as she makes her way, but the moment she stands next to Thor she's dwarfed in comparison.

"Lovely," Carla murmurs, obviously not impressed.

Principal Jackson immediately loses some of the attention the moment the grand reveal is done, struggling to maintain order as students begin to chatter around him. "Of course, this information is to be kept secret until the Reaping in a couple days. Remember your pledge, and be mindful of your final studies. The term has not ended yet."

Jasmine noticeably scoffs, Thor's mouth twitching slightly into a smirk. For them, it may as well have ended the second their name was called. Bigger fish to fry. They'll be on the train to the Capitol before exams even start.

"Best part of the year, already over," Renee sighs, turning her attention to her split ends. It seems as though most of the room agrees, anxious to get going and be free of the dusty air in the auditorium.

"And of course, we'll be having our usual honored guests in attendance this year," Jackson continues, referring to the tradition of former victors coming on the day of the Reaping to see the new tributes off and wish them luck. "We're pleased to welcome some exciting alumni back to the district from the Capitol this year."

Although she's doing a good job of being disinterested, something deep in Maya's chest suddenly constricts. It's instinctual, as if she's been pushed back underwater.

"I wonder who it could be," Renee says, interest piqued.

"Unless it's Enobaria, I don't give a shit," Carla says, but her focus is drawn to Jackson just the same. "Did you see her Games? She ripped out a tribute's throat with her _teeth_. I've watched it like, fourteen times."

"We'll be joined this year by Lyme from our very own Victor's Village, and interim guest weapons trainer. Perhaps some of you have had the privilege of training with her once before." A murmur of excitement ripples through the room, but Maya's still completely transfixed. "And from the Capitol, for the first time since his departure, Kermit Hart will be returning to see off the tributes this year."

Both Renee and Carla turn at the same time to stare at her. Renee's eyes are wide.

"Kermit Hart?" She cocks her head. "As in your father?"

She is drowning. She's back underwater and it's filling her lungs and they're screaming to bust out of her ribcage.

"Don't state the obvious," Carla snaps, but she doesn't tear her gaze away from Maya. Her expression is cold, but thoughtful. Something ticking just beneath the surface. "Hart?"

Maya doesn't bother to answer either of them. She rises to her feet, clenching her jaw so tightly she worries she may crack a tooth. Maintaining the neutral expression long enough to shove past her classmates as students begin to file out and burst through the doors to the auditorium.

She makes it out behind the school building before she vomits.

She's always hated surprises.

* * *

Maya does not return to the academy for the rest of the school day. She spends it expending her restless energy elsewhere—climbing along the mountainside, vandalizing the backs of the pathetic little dwellings they call homes, throwing rocks at the windows of the traditional school house until they shatter. She's never liked surprises, and the ones that truly catch her off-guard always send her on a bout of reckless behavior. She's never learned to handle it any different, so no sense in starting now.

Her mind refuses to accept the fact that her father is coming home. Her father, who disappeared to the Games the year she was born only to never come back. It would have stung less, she thinks, if he had died instead of becoming a victor. Because sure, death is the district shame, but at least it's guilt-free.

The way things panned out, it's his choice. It was his choice to emerge victorious and then leave her behind.

Growing up, it was far easier to be angry at her mother. Her soft, gentle mother, who was out from dusk until dawn every day earning enough money to keep them both afloat since her victor father never came home to share a home in the village with them. Her mother, who never planned on having a daughter so young, when she was still up for Reaping herself, but went through with it anyway and is still paying the price for it. Her mother, who deserves so much more from her, and yet all Maya can seem to focus on is how much she wishes she had the grit of her father.

Her victor father who won the Games and brought glory to their district. Her father, who is controlled so little by his emotion that he is able to leave an entire family behind without a second thought.

Any time she feels tears prick the corners of her eyes, she balls her fists and digs her nails deep into the sensitive skin of her palms. She lays the pressure on until it stings, until she's so distracted by the new pain that she forgets whatever almost caused the tears in the first place. She's got a fair number of tiny scars to show for it.

Tonight, she gains a whole new set.

For all the anger she has built up inside of her, however, some twisted part of her still wants to impress him. She's always wanted to be exactly like him—the brave, bold man who jumped into the arena without a moment's hesitation and took the entire competition down no holds barred. She's subconsciously emulated him for as long as she's had the imagination to paint her own picture of him in her head, through her ruthless training regimen and cold demeanor and the way she treats her mother.

Half of the drawings she ripped out of her notebook years ago were renditions of him, far too fondly crafted and never quite right. How could they be, when she never really knew him at all?

As she lays in bed that night, dingy room lit by silver moonlight and hardly breathing to continue hiding from the rest of the world, she finds herself lost in what she would've been like if she had been like her mother. If she had elected to embrace the beauty and subtle charm, opting for kindness in the face of disadvantage rather than clawing her way out of it no matter who she steps on in the process. If she had let the warmth in rather than freezing it out, where would she be instead?

The thought is too much to even consider. Instead, she simmers in the residual heat of the day's events and attempts to figure out what she wants to do next. Whether she's upset because her father is coming back in general, or if there's a deeper reasoning behind the desperation that has suddenly seemed to consume her.

Moments before she drifts off, she recognizes the truth. The real reason she's so overwhelmed by this unexpected homecoming is because she's worked so hard to follow in his footsteps, to prove she was worth getting to know and worthy of being his legacy. She's worked herself to the bone to show him, and he's back before she can do anything about it.

He's arrived a year too early, and she's going to miss her chance before it's truly hers at all.

* * *

"It's a shame," Carla says in her usual bored tone.

Maya jumps in spite of herself. She has joined her in standing in front of the trophy case between classes, staring up at the large display of former victors and their achievements—both while at the academy and beyond.

It's been a task avoiding it for the five years that she's been at school, pretending that if she didn't acknowledge it, then perhaps her father and his triumphs never existed at all. There is no family expectation hanging over her head, no father to live up to who likely wouldn't recognize her anyway.

Now, she cannot seem to look away from it. His portrait placed neatly amongst the rest, a physical reminder of the absence that has haunted her since she could properly comprehend what created that gaping hole in her chest. She doesn't quite understand how the absence of something can cause such a deep reaction considering by definition absence indicates a lack thereof, but she knows it's possible considering how hard she's worked to attempt to fill the chasm left behind because of it.

Still, all things considered there's no reason for Carla to have any reason to comment on it. Panic shoots through her, wondering how on Earth she could have any idea at all when she's done such a painstaking job of concealing it.

She whips her head to look at her. "What?"

Carla raises her eyebrows, obviously noting her sharp response. "That Jasmine is going to represent us and get herself killed. Not to mention how pathetic the rest of us are going to look because of it." She nods to the display, crossing her arms. "I mean, look at them. You see princess perfection fitting in with those legends?"

Maya lets her gaze drift back to the board. She has to admit, it's hard to imagine Jasmine Gonzalez joining the ranks of the victors honored in the display. She's an excellent shot with a crossbow, she knows, and her grades have always been top tier. But something about her isn't harsh enough, brutal enough—it's a lot like how she views Renee. Like she belonged in another district, arguably poorer and less likely to survive should the odds flip out of her favor, but allowed a softer existence. Allowed to be happier than she could ever be here.

"Probably not," Maya agrees after a beat of silence, locking her fingers together in front of her.

"If it were me, I'd back out if I had her chances."

Maya frowns. "You can do that?"

"As long as it's before the official Reaping? Sure. The district wants the best tributes up for the job, they're not going to care if someone steps down. At least, since they've started doing it this way with the whole top selection method." Carla squints at the display, taking a better look at it. "You sure that's your father?"

Maya blinks, realizing she's referring to the photo of her father marking him as a former victor. Her voice is hoarser than she would like when she responds. "Yes."

Carla's silent for a long moment. Then, she shrugs.

"Looks too tough to be your father."

* * *

Carla's words burning in her brain, Maya pushes herself harder than ever before at training. Her mind is a hundred different places, but her work with the weapons is pure muscle memory at this point, so she's able to channel a lot of her emotion into it instead.

Still, it doesn't stop the fatigue. The second time she stumbles off to the side to vomit into the waste bin, it's clear she's going harder than usual. She's not the only one, however, as weapons training often involves quite a few spells of sickness due to dehydration and at least one black out.

If there's not one faint while they're feinting, Fanucchi is known to say, then they're evidently not trying hard enough.

She straightens back up and wipes her mouth, swallowing the acidic bile back down her throat. Her sparring partner Brandon scoffs, flipping his sword in his hands.

"Come on, Blonde Beauty," he says playfully, raising his eyebrows at her. "Going to need a little more stamina than that."

Brandon is one of those students in her class who has no ambitions to rank top of the class. He claims he's only there for the benefits, the training for a future career in Peacekeeping. But the rumors swirling around his family and their potential links to the desolate District 13 have always given him an unspoken reservation amongst his peers.

He may not want to win victory in a bloodbath, but he may be complicit in the planning of a rebellion against the Capitol. He may even be a rebel himself. And that blatant disregard for the order of the world is far more intimidating than any amount of bloodlust.

That, and something about his dark hair and curious brown eyes has always caught Maya's attention. Not in any logical way or that she understands, but she finds them hard to look away from often times.

Maya manages a smirk, gritting her teeth and scooping her own blade back up from the floor. Despite the protests of her body and all the places it's aching, she assumes her stance and readies for another round. "Don't go easy on me, Brandon. Not a good look on you."

The clanging of their blades is loud enough to draw the attention of Fanucchi across the room. He watches them spar for a moment, and Maya swears she catches the ghost of a smile grace his expression before he goes back to berating Renee for her terrible form.

She knows she's top of the class. She's stronger and quicker and more determined than any of her classmates, and she thinks Fanucchi might know it too. It's enough to provoke her wildest plans into action, making her believe that maybe all of her chances aren't dead in the ground quite yet.

It's that and the exhausted delirium from training that finds her waltzing into his office after the school day has concluded, still dripping in sweat and smelling a little like bile. It can't be an appealing combination, she realizes, but she's never cared much for appearances.

He's at his desk going through the gradebook—what a ridiculous notion, a gradebook for a weapons class—and he smells her before he sees her. He doesn't bother to look up.

"Make it fast, Hart. Lots to prepare for tomorrow."

The statement only reminds her of how insane her proposition is, how much she's attempting to mess with in such limited time. But she's never been anything but crazy, it feels like. She steels her resolve, stepping further into the office.

"I volunteer as tribute."

The phrase is enough to catch his attention. He lifts his eyes from his book, turning his scrutinizing glare on her instead. She forces herself not to wilt.

"What the hell are you on about?" He pauses when she doesn't flinch. "We don't take volunteers anymore."

"I know," she says breathlessly. She straightens to maintain her confidence, sauntering further into the room. "Funny, isn't it, how our district never seems to have volunteers? Two students are picked and everyone is just magically okay with it. Not one student daring to volunteer for their chance at fame and glory."

"You're a part of this academy, you know why. You make the pledge."

The reminder of the promises she makes to this institution every year is enough to make her pause, questioning her entire mission. Then she remembers the cold gaze of her father from his portrait in the victor display, and the fleeting opportunity she has in front of her. How much work she's put into her own shot, how many times she's nearly killed herself to be better in pursuit of it.

She nods, acknowledging his point. "I only mean to say the system is a bit flawed. Someone might find out, if the strange non-occurrence keeps up as it is. It's a lot to rely on, everyone keeping their promise and their mouths shut."

"If you're trying to threaten me, Hart, you're barking up the wrong tree." He closes his gradebook, raising an eyebrow at her. Not as moved as she hoped he'd be. "I'm not in control of the whole process. I only train the students."

"But I know you have a hand in it," she argues, stepping closer to the desk. She places her fingertips on the surface of it, feeling colder as the heat from her workout drains out of her and leaves her in the damp chill of her sweat on her skin. "You pass on the names to the Mayor. And once it gets to him, that's it. I assume that's on your long list of tasks today."

"It may be."

"Put my name on the list." The demand comes from low in her register, completely clear. She makes her glare evenly dark match to his own. "I volunteer as tribute."

Fanucchi holds her gaze for much longer than she expected. Then, finally, he sighs.

"I don't have that much control."

"Bullshit," Maya growls, digging her fingernails into the wood.

"Look, you don't think I believe you're far more suited to the Games than Gonzalez?" Fanucchi spits, an obvious disdain alight in his features towards their future female tribute. The disdain surprises Maya somewhat—it always seemed as though the faculty was in full support of every tribute their district put up regardless of who they were. Like they had earned the respect of their mentors by earning the coveted honor of tribute. "She's a flower, and she's going to wilt the moment she steps into that arena and the bloodbath gets going. If she lasts long enough without getting smeared into the grass, that is. Or concrete, depending on the architecture this year."

"So why are you fighting this?" Maya's eyes widen, heart pounding faster in anticipation of having an ally in her crazy maneuver. "Make it easy for us both. Save her life, if you want to put a God damn humanitarian spin on it."

"Because that isn't how this works, Hart." He's still scowling, but there's a new layer of seriousness to his interaction with her that makes her feel respected. Like for once, he's looking at her as another player in his game rather than a pawn.

"How does it work, then?"

"I can't simply change up the nominated tributes the day before because I feel like it. I may be the messenger between the academy and the justice building, but there are other people involved in the decision." He rubs his chin, lost in thought. "The only time I have to offer up my own suggestion is in the face of—,"

"Resignation," Maya fills in for him.

They lock eyes again as Carla's words from earlier rattle around in her skull. She holds her breath, waiting for any indication that she is on the right track.

Fanucchi gives it to her a second later when his expression shifts into a concentrated glower. He leans forward over the desk, speaking in a quiet tone so quick that Maya has to strain to listen. "There is nothing I can do about the situation while Gonzalez is still on board. If you want to change it up, if you want to take your shot now, you're going to have to convince her to step down."

"I can make it happen," Maya agrees, filled once again with cold adrenaline. She is already mapping out potential plans in her head, her creativity working a million miles an hour. She may no longer be sketching cracks in the sidewalk or the flowers that bloom in between them, but she's still working that muscle for her benefit.

"I can only give you until sunrise tomorrow. That's the latest I can relay the chosen tributes to the mayor's personnel before they begin set up for the ceremony."

Maya is on her way to the door. "I'll make it happen."

"Hart."

She pauses, glancing at him over her shoulder. His glare is back to its full power, bending her to shrink at the amount of potential disappointment. Withholding the approval she so carefully works to achieve. "You better be sure this is what you want. Once you step up on that stage, there's no turning back. Whatever you're rushing into it for, it better be worth it."

For once, his gaze doesn't make her want to crumble to pieces. She feels powerful in her own right, able to match his glare with a sneer of her own. Her reasons are her reasons, and all that matters in the end is whether or not she comes out on top of twenty-three others.

"I'll make it happen."

* * *

Maya dresses for action that night, wearing the most durable pair of jeans she owns in spite of the festivities laid out for the evening. They're not exactly a fashion statement, but jean is near impossible to come by in their district unless it's for mining clothes and she feels lucky enough to have the pair she does. She rarely wears them, but tonight seems like a good enough reason.

They're good enough at drawing attention. Her mother eyes them as she scoots into her seat for dinner, planning to eat quickly to get to the academy on time.

"Haven't seen you wear those in a spell," she says curiously, passing the bowl of cheap greens her way. The meal is meager as ever, but it's tradition to eat together the night before the Reaping. No matter how little they have to say to one another. "Jean seems a bit tough for a party, don't you think?"

"Not with this crowd," Maya covers smoothly. She takes a sip of the water in the tin cup before her, grimacing at the gritty quality of the beverage.

Katy's eyes feel heavy on her as she continues to examine her. Her mother is hardly around enough to see her on a usual basis, she doesn't see why she feels the need to soak it all in now. As if there's even anything worth taking in.

She pokes at the bread on her plate. "Been a while since you wore your hair down."

The comment is so out of left field, Maya's steely exterior collapses somewhat. She lifts her eyes to meet her mother's, a curiosity glimmering in them that's often absent these days. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing." Katy flips her hair over her shoulder, waving off the thought as if to accent its unimportance. "I was just thinking the other day… you wear it up a lot now. Always in that tight, neat bun. I don't know how you manage it, I could never get my hair to look so put together."

Maya doesn't know how to respond. The commentary is well-intentioned, and feels genuine despite the off the cuff nature of it. She explains for the sake of speaking.

"It keeps it out of my face. Hard to concentrate on combat techniques when your hair keeps flying in front of you."

"Right, of course. That makes sense." Katy nods eagerly, hesitating over her next thought. "Just… do you remember all the ways we used to do it when you were little? Different parts, pigtails, braids. How many braids could we squeeze onto that little blonde head of yours?"

"The mermaid was always my favorite," Maya finds herself admitting. It's strange, how easily the words slip out of her mind and into the air between them. How uncharacteristically fond they sound.

It's terrifying, how quickly her practiced hardness can soften into something sweeter.

"I remember the day you came home to tell me about it," Katy says, smiling as she recalls the memory. "Your teacher at the school house had done it for you. Ms. Kassle, I think it was?"

"Kossal," Maya fills in. "Gabriella Kossal. She was the art and reading teacher."

Katy sighs, nodding along. "Wow. Feels like so long ago. Remember how much you used to love that class?"

She does remember. It's all a part of those pieces of herself she buried long ago, left out to dry the same way her father left them to do the same. All the things that made her feel soft, that made her feel warm in one way or another. The school house. The sketches. The conversations with her mother over braiding hair before school and work.

Sometimes, it feels as though she can't figure out where it all went. Like she buried it away for the winter, but when spring arrived she could never find it again. And she's not sure she's been the same since.

"I know how hard you've been working at the academy," Katy continues, proceeding with caution evident in her voice. Maya immediately feels her defenses rise a bit at the mention of her studies, although she doesn't know quite why. "Jackson tells me you're the top of your class. I'm sure that came with nothing but hard work."

She squints, trying to figure out where her mother is going with this. Why she bothered to mention it at all when the notion of her decision to attend the academy rather than stay in the school house has always been a point of contention between them. She offers a nod.

"I only hope… whatever you're discovering about yourself with all that hard work, you're remembering where you came from, too. All of the wonderful things that have always existed about you, regardless of what happens tomorrow. Or, you know, in the future."

It's the mention of tomorrow's Reaping specifically that cracks the code for her. Because if it were simply about Maya's own future at the academy, they would be speaking in hypotheticals still a year away. If it were only about how Maya views herself, then it would be a conversation they had long before this point in time. Maybe it should have been, considering how nice it feels in the few moments of connection before she figures it out.

Katy knows. She knows that her father is returning to the district tomorrow, and that's what this is all about. It's not about her. It's never about her, after all.

"Of course," Maya says slowly, digging her fork into the cold meat on her plate. She's not sure what animal it came from. She figures maybe, like some other things, it's best not to know. "All those things I had with or without my father, correct?"

She can tell from the way Katy blinks that she's cornered her. That she's caught onto her angle and blown her cover in one foul swoop, and there's a delicious sense of victory in that. In proving that she's not stupid enough to be won over from a couple of reminiscent niceties when she knows that's not how the world operates.

"Why would you bring it around to that?"

"Don't beat around the bush, mother," Maya snaps, keeping her voice as level as possible. She emulates the crippling glare of her coach. "Why else would we be having such a nice conversation?"

Katy seems sincerely offended by the insinuation. "Because you're my daughter. Because for all the limited time we get to spend together, it's nice to get to have a pleasant moment with you."

"Well, who's fault is it that you're not around most of the day time?"

"That's not fair." Her mother's voice quivers, and she pushes some hair anxiously behind her ear. "You know that's now how I want things to be, but someone has to—,"

"But that's how they are. Yes, I'm well aware, mom. I'm well aware of the state of affairs in this district and how we survive." She waits while her mother closes her eyes, regaining her composure. "But are you going to look me in the eyes and attempt to convince me that this conversation wasn't spurred by the impending homecoming of my father tomorrow morning?"

Katy can't look her in the eyes. It's confirmation enough. And it stings.

"How long have you known?"

"What?"

It takes all of Maya's composure to control the way her anger is dying to break out. She keeps her voice low and even. "How long have you known he was coming?"

A significant pause. Another blink. Katy forces herself to meet her eyes, swallowing hard.

"I didn't want you to have to worry about it."

Maya rolls her eyes, her frustration spurring her to push away from the table. She gets to her feet.

"I didn't want you to get all wrapped up in it!" Her mother's concerns seem genuine, but all it does it make her angrier. Because she had years to prove that she cared, and she wasted them without so much as an explanation. "I'm sorry you had to find out without any warning—,"

"Because you didn't tell me!" Maya shouts, slamming her hands down on the table.

Her mother flinches, leaning back in her chair and averting her gaze. There's a quiet moment between them where the explosion settles in the room, taking up all of the cracks in the walls and free space in the air. Like so much else in their dismal reality, it makes it harder to breathe.

"I knew it was going to be a lot to handle," Katy murmurs, keeping her eyes down at the table in front of her. She twists her fingers in her lap, attempting to swallow the lump in her throat. "I just… I didn't want you to do anything reckless. Anything you might regret."

A nice sentiment, but likely more helpful before all the damage she caused the evening prior. More helpful before the inner turmoil she had to suffer through alone, trying to work through the emotions of someone reentering her life in a way she hadn't anticipated. How helpful it could have been, having her mother there to work through it with her.

But that's not the way they are. It's not the way they've ever been.

For a breathtaking instance, she considers telling her. She considers revealing her whole grand scheme just for the satisfaction of seeing the way her mother grapples with it, to see her grovel and try to convince her not to go. Because jumping into the Games before she's supposed to, before she's supposedly ready, is absolutely the kind of reckless move her mother would find worth regretting.

But she doesn't. She pulls back her rage, shoving it back down under the cool façade she's been living under for so many years. She gives her one more dissatisfied look, and then she turns away.

"I have to go," she says flatly, not waiting for a reaction or a response.

Back in her room, she quickly adjusts her bun and digs in her bag for one of her training knives. She slips it carefully into her jeans, concealing it with the hem of her shirt. One swift glance in the mirror to confirm she's ready, and not a moment longer at risk of getting lost in the discontent of her reflection.

Fanucchi's warning echoes in her mind, questioning whether or not she's sure about what she's about to do. Strengthening her resolve by the sheer ice that seems to clog her lungs when she thinks about her previous conversation and how much seems to be riding on which name is called up to the stage in front of the justice building tomorrow.

She marches out the door without a backwards glance to her mother. Considering what she's about to do, it's all she can do to keep moving forward. There's no room for looking back.

* * *

Although unofficial, the annual pre-Reaping bash in the basement of the training academy is a far more awaited tradition than the Capitol ceremony itself.

No one seems to know how it started or when it became an annual event. The origin of how the first round of students obtained the key to the cellar is an often discussed urban legend, and the expert passing of the key each year to the next crop of Final Years is an even better kept secret than their conspiratorial selection of tributes. It's perhaps the grandest plot any of them will ever pull, Games in their future or not.

Tonight, Maya feels like she's pulling off a much larger heist.

The basement is dusty and damp, lanterns giving the whole atmosphere a rather eerie glow. The assembly of students above third year is a mass of pent up energy, waiting for the grain alcohol to enter their systems and casting shadows on the walls far bigger than any of them actually are. The ancient phonograph crackling music in the corner is just loud enough to be heard over the din of chatter.

The beverages supplied are objectively disgusting, but no one there is consuming it for the taste. There are students who spend their entire school year saving up their spare change to provide it, earning some credit from their classmates and splitting the small entry fee each student forks over upon entry. Those who can't afford the entry fee are barred from consuming, and usually supplement with their own variation of intoxication. Andrew, a graduating Final Year, had a reputation for downing the rubbing alcohol from his father's store as the district doctor.

Maya passes on the drinking fee when she arrives. It's not what she's there for that evening, and she can't afford to be distracted.

It's interesting, she thinks as she watches her classmates drink and dance, how much their level of discipline begs for an outlet. They spend the entire year trapped in this strict institution, preparing for a life of structured violence while the rest of them chips away over time. She knows firsthand how exhausting it is, maintaining the level of control the academy expects of its students. So much effort, only for most of them to go off to the Peacekeeper barracks and never progress from there.

All that work, no glory to show for it.

"No grain for you tonight?" someone murmurs, catching her off-guard from her perch in the corner of the room. She whips around, somewhat relieved to find it's only Brandon. "Considering your reputation, I have to admit I'm surprised."

Maya glances at the tin canister in his hand as he takes a sip from it. It's not false that in the past she's been known to drink her weight at the annual party—all to burn off that suffocating discipline and dissatisfaction for one night—but desperate times call for desperate measures. She follows along with her chosen excuse she gave at the door.

"Couldn't afford it this year."

Brandon takes another long drink, tilting the canister at her. Offering a taste, if she really wants it.

It's a strange moment of kindness, a warped sense of warmth coming from a student who is arguably supposed to be a rival simply by circumstance. Although part of her is tempted to accept it just to see what it feels like to engage in such a moment of humanity, she declines with a wave of her hand.

"It's fine." She makes a face, turning away from him to scan the crowd again. "Not worth the organ damage."

"Valid reasoning." He shrugs as he finishes the canister, grimacing and letting out a sigh. "So, what? Blonde Beauty not going to dance this year?"

She squints, tilting her head. Her gaze is trained elsewhere, hesitating on Renee swaying on the dance floor to a rhythm entirely her own. Carla is standing by her, rolling her eyes before resuming a conversation with another girl from their year. "Blonde Beauty is going to cut you if you keep calling her that. What's it to you?"

"Don't know." Brandon smirks, shrugging again. "Guess I kind of just liked watching you do your thing. Only time you really seemed free."

The statement is enough to earn her attention once again. She cocks her head at him, a frown taking over her features. She wants to question him, but she doesn't know how. Or where she should begin.

It's not the sort of thing you say to your sparring partner. It's not the kind of thing anybody says in their district, where the idea of freedom doesn't even seem like a realistic concept. The phrase is so foreign to her, in fact, it takes her a couple of seconds to fully comprehend his explanation.

He's still smirking at her, brown eyes strangely more alluring in the dim lantern light. She can't help but notice how different his eyes are, how they lack the same cruelty and trained coldness so many of her classmates possess. That she herself relies on to get through the day.

 _Rebel._

Maya feels something swirling in the air between them, something that makes her stomach tighten in a way she's not familiar with and far from comfortable with.

When she's cornered in a situation like this, uncertain with what to do, the only thing she knows how to do is fight. Fight her way out, violence being the only logical response to any sort of unfamiliar emotion. Even still, she doesn't want to hurt him when he's not properly equipped himself and she can't afford to pull her knife now when she's going to need it later.

Thankfully, he backs off before she can make a move one way or another. "See you around, Maya. If you decide to dance, be sure to let me know."

In the next moment he's gone, disappearing back into the crowd. But the tension in her stomach and unnatural breathlessness is still dominating her body, taking control of it in a way she's not prepared for. The violent urge to fight back, however, she figures is well timed.

She knows she's going to need it.

* * *

A couple more minutes of lurking on the outskirts of the party finally shows her what she's looking for. Jasmine is standing by the drink table, gossiping with a few of her classmates and scanning the room with disinterest. Like she's already far beyond it, knowing what her future holds while the rest of them still have work to do to find out.

Maya wonders bitterly if she realizes her future is undeniably death. That is, unless she changes her tune.

She slips her way through the crowd, approaching the drink table and appearing on Jasmine's other side. She lightly nudges her shoulder, waiting for her to turn around.

"Jasmine."

"Oh, hey," she says blankly. There's clearly some kind of substance running through her system, making her less steady than normal. "Maya, right?"

Maya nods. She opens her mouth to speak again when the guy working the drink table interrupts.

"Get out of here, Hart! No fee, no pick-me-up!"

"I don't want your garbage," she snaps, reveling in how nice it feels to be allowed to lash out. She pulls back a second later, turning her attention back to Jasmine and putting on her most charming façade. "Sorry, it's a bit loud in here. Mind if we—?"

She nods to the door, indicating a quieter location. Jasmine hesitates for a moment, finally shrugging and nodding agreeably.

"Sure. You lead the way, I can barely see shit down here."

All Maya can think is that Jasmine Gonzalez is an idiot. She's an idiot, and there's no way in hell she'll win the Games if she steps onto that stage tomorrow. She's far too trusting, and not nearly careful enough in any and all situations.

But she's playing right into her hands, so she's not going to complain. Maya weaves her way through the crowd, checking over her shoulder to make sure Jasmine is still behind her. They make their way through the door to the coolly lit hallway, even chillier than the cellar without the heat of other bodies around them.

Maya heads towards the storage room a couple doors down, holding it open for Jasmine to step in. She does without question, flicking on the light and waiting for Maya to join her.

"Honestly, I am so glad you invited me out of there," Jasmine says, exhaling loudly and pulling her hair up out of her face. She lets it fall back down to her shoulders dramatically, eyes still trained on the stone ceiling. "So much noise and not nearly enough oxygen."

For a minute, Maya forgets why she dragged her out of the party in the first place. There's so much simplicity laced in her words, painting something about the exchange between them far less sinister than she intends for it to become. Like Jasmine is just a friend of hers, and they're taking a break from the madness to catch their breath.

As if in some other world, this could be commonplace. There could be shared empathy between the two of them.

"And it's like, everyone keeps going on and on about the tribute thing. Like, congratulations, you know? Which is great and everything, but could I get a second to breathe?" Jasmine huffs, brushing her hair behind her ear. "I'll get plenty of time to think all about it starting tomorrow morning. Figure I could get tonight to not think about anything at all, you know?"

The world turns back right side up again.

She's an idiot. She's such an idiot.

"Oh, for sure," Maya says cautiously. She steps further into the room, clasping her hands behind her back. Her wrist bumps the cold metal of her blade, tucked away under her shirt. "But it's an honor, isn't it? Probably want to be taking the time to think about it. Want to be as prepared as possible."

Jasmine makes a face. "I mean, I guess."

"If it were me, I'd make sure I were absolutely prepared. The Games aren't a joke."

The shift in Maya's tone finally seems to break through Jasmine's relaxed haze. She straightens up, eyeing her storage room companion with slight apprehension. But she still manages a smile. "Well, you've got another year. You can do whatever you want when it's your turn. Everyone knows you're a shoo-in for next year's Games."

"No, I won't be going next year." Maya stops pacing, turning to face Jasmine. Adrenaline begins to leak back into her veins, leaving any warmth from earlier to wash away with the chill in her bones.

Jasmine frowns. "I don't understand."

"No, you don't," Maya agrees. "But you will."

Within seconds, Maya draws her knife from her clothes and lunges forward, grabbing Jasmine and yanking her to the floor. She has the upper hand for a few brief moments as Jasmine struggles to catch up with what is going on, but when she gains her bearings on the situation she throws herself into fighting back.

Maya may have underestimated her, because she puts up a difficult fight. Both of them roll on the concrete until Jasmine manages to kick her off of her, scrambling to her feet and scanning the room for a weapon. Anything to help keep her at bay.

She doesn't have enough time. Maya leaps back to her feet with unbridled ferocity, grabbing Jasmine's hair and slamming her into one of the shelves. A flurry of textbooks and heavy cans rains down on them, Maya swerving to avoid one to the head.

"First mistake," Maya snarls, grabbing her shoulders and jostling her against the shelf again. "Never let your guard down."

She pulls her knife up to eye level, taking a strand of Jasmine's dark hair. She's trembling, attempting to nudge her off but not nearly strong enough when she's intoxicated. Maya twirls the piece of hair on her finger, until she runs the knife clean through it and chops it off.

"Or your hair."

The strands fall from her grasp and onto the floor.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jasmine gasps, shoving her as hard as she can. Maya scowls and pushes her back, digging her elbow into her collarbone. "What do you want?"

"You're not good enough to be a tribute," Maya barks. Their faces are inches from each other, close enough for her to smell the alcohol on Jasmine's breath. "You're not good enough for our district. And this year is not your year."

Jasmine spits in her face, attempting to distract her enough to break free. But Maya is well-trained enough to recognize such a rudimentary technique. She grits her teeth as the saliva trickles down her cheek, not bothering to wipe it away and lose her grip.

"So here's what you're going to do," Maya demands, lifting the knife back into view. She gently pokes the tip of it into Jasmine's chin. "You're going to go to Fanucchi tomorrow, the moment the building opens. Before sunrise. And you're going to tell him you're stepping down."

"What? No way. You're nuts."

Maya grimaces, training her focus on the knife point trailing her jaw line. She makes a small dig into the skin, causing Jasmine to flinch and let out a small whimper. "I think you're going to, Jasmine. I think you will."

"Or what, you'll kill me?" Jasmine exhales, managing a tight laugh. "I'm going into the Games, Maya. Death doesn't scare me. It can't, otherwise I wouldn't be suited for the honor in the first place."

"You're _not_ ," Maya growls, digging her elbow more pointedly into her shoulder. Jasmine grits her teeth, holding her ground. "But no, I'm not going to kill you. It wouldn't be worth it, since some blundering oaf from District 8 or 10 or wherever the hell would do it for me in a few days' time."

"So what? What makes you think I'd ever agree to this?"

Maya pauses, savoring the tension that's caught in the air in the suspense of the moment. This is the kind of thrill she's familiar with, the one she's trained so expertly to crave.

"Your sister goes to the school house, doesn't she?" Maya hums, imitating thoughtful. "Annabelle, I think it is? Just a couple years shy of entering the academy herself, no?"

There's a strange satisfaction in watching the color drain from Jasmine's face. She blinks, suddenly colder in Maya's grip.

"You wouldn't." She struggles against her, actual passion in her eyes for the first time since they started this negotiation. "You wouldn't touch her—,"

"I'm the most ruthless girl in my year, Gonzalez." Maya glances at the half-reflection of her face in the blade of the knife. For once, she doesn't hate it. For once, she sees everything she's ever wanted. Composure. Control. Power. "I think you and I both know I would."

She can see the gears turning in Jasmine's head, actually considering her threats. Attempting to weigh whether the bluff is worth her sister's life.

"You're vile," Jasmine breathes, narrowing her eyes in disgust. Somehow, it only empowers her more.

Maya shrugs, loosening her grip. Knowing from the look on Jasmine's face that she's given up the fight. "Everything is. Especially here."

She reaches out and takes her hand, making a quick and practiced cut into her forearm. Jasmine cries out, stumbling when Maya lets her go and cradling her arm. Blood seeps through her fingers before Maya can get another word in.

"Just another precaution," she says loftily, starting her walk towards the door. Jasmine drops to her knees, the overwhelming nature of the situation finally catching up with her. "Wouldn't want to go into the Games already injured. Even you're smart enough to know that."

"You're crazy," Jasmine pants, shoulders shaking with unshed tears. She lifts her eyes to meet Maya's one last time, deep loathing burning into her. "You're fucking crazy."

Something about the outright detestation stings in a way Maya wasn't expecting, but the pride of completing her objective is a far more prevailing emotion. She manages a smirk.

"But capable, wouldn't you say?"

Maya stops by Fanucchi's office on her way out of the building, not bothering to return to the party. She lodges her knife in the wall outside his door and leaves it there, figuring it's a clear enough message. If not, she knows Jasmine will take care of the rest.

* * *

That night, Maya dreams that she's falling.

It's her least favorite nightmare to have, because it's the one fatal accident she cannot prepare for. Drowning, she can hold her breath until her lungs burst to improve her stamina. Weapons play, she can train herself even harder than any opponent to make sure she's always one step ahead. Illness, dehydration, nearly every other ailment offers some solution, some method to fight her way out of it.

Falling has no solution. Only the sensation of weightlessness—the ultimate freedom, she supposes—and the hard landing when she meets the ground.

Usually, when she dreams of falling, her body wakes her up before she meets the end. She wakes up with a start and a cold sweat on a particularly bad night, but the vision itself is fractured and forgotten before she can truly process it. It's a human defense, something psychological Andrew tries to drunkenly explain every year when people start asking him questions just to hear his bullshit son-of-the-doctor answers. No matter how close to death you brush in a dream, your body will never let you die.

The night before the Reaping isn't like that. In this dream, Maya hits the ground.

It's as if all of her bones break at once, and the pain that spreads through her entire body is simultaneously fire and ice. It ravages her with agony, every inch of her stinging so fiercely she knows in the real world, she would pass out. Realistically, she would be dead upon impact. But the dream decides to let her stew in it instead, milking the immense physical pain for every second it's worth.

Maya wakes up with the ache of the fall still in her bones, immediately racked with tears before she can stop them. They're full body sobs, suffocating her far more effectively than the bathtub ever could and exhausting her in minutes.

It drains her enough to send her off into restless sleep for another couple of hours until she's awoken with a start, panic shooting through her at the prospect of missing the Reaping.

She doesn't have time to worry about whether not Jasmine followed through. She doesn't have time to get ready properly, throwing on her dress her mother ironed for her while she was out and combing her hair into something barely presentable. Her hands work mindlessly, subconsciously weaving her hair into a braid down the back of her head.

Her make up is even more dreadful than usual, but it'll have to do. She slips on her shoes and darts out the door, her mother already gone for the ceremony.

Maya squints in the sun as she allows the Peacekeeper to smear her blood on her attendance sheet, holding her breath until the slips into place next to Carla. Her ally gives her a critical look, taking in her rushed appearance.

"Running late, Hart?"

"Something like that," she mutters, not in the mood for chit-chat. Her focus is too preoccupied with scanning the personnel assembling on the stage. No Fanucchi in sight, but he's rarely on the main platform as it is. Honored guest Lyme is there, shaking hands with the mayor while the Capitol woman fusses with the microphone.

But no Kermit Hart. No absent father.

He's neglected to show up. Again.

Maya barely has time to absorb this reality when the ceremony starts, the Capitol woman welcoming them all and launching into the usual spiel. Her chest is tight as she attempts to accept the fact that her father didn't show up where he promised—of course he didn't, her logical side argues—despite all of the effort she put into changing the tides of how these Games would go.

Suddenly, she's acutely aware of how futile everything is. All the decisions they make, all the ways they continue to hurt one another and scrape along to survive is so meaningless. If the only way to gain any sense of life is to gain recognition in the arena by taking twenty-three others, then she supposes the world truly is pretty vile.

"Now, for the fun. Let's get to it, shall we?"

Maya completely forgets her change of plans until the woman steps up to the bowl containing the names of the female tributes. The moment she reaches into the sphere and retrieves a paper slip—the one every student in that town center knows was planted—Maya comes slamming back to reality.

"Maya Hart!"

Although no one dares to utter an exclamation of surprise, Maya can feel the tension in the square shift around her. It's a surprise to everyone but her, and she knows how much her district hates surprises.

Everyone aside from her and Carla, who doesn't seem all that surprised at all. While the rest of the students part like the Red Sea to give her a wide berth, Jasmine glaring at her from a couple rows away with a bandage on her arm dampened red with blood, Carla examines her curiously.

Finally, a smirk sweeps onto her lips. She tilts her head, nodding Maya along.

"May the odds be ever in your favor."

* * *

While she's ushered into the justice building and locked in the green room to await her escort to the train, all Maya can think about is how small she feels. She felt small as she ascended the steps to the stage and stared out at the mass of assembled youth peering up at her. If Jasmine was tiny standing next to Thor, she's a speck in comparison as they shake hands. His grip is too tight. So are the Peacekeepers' when they take her arms and guide her out of the spotlight and into the building.

She's not expecting anybody to come see her off. Fanucchi, maybe, but she knows he's far from sentimental and she hasn't earned his approval yet. When she comes back alive and with the first district victory in the last three years, then she'll have won another one-on-one with coach.

Renee wouldn't come see her off, because as much as she's the closest thing she has to it she knows they're not friends. Whatever Brandon and she are to each other, they're not worth risking confrontation with a Peacekeeper to say goodbye.

Carla is not her friend, and the more she thinks about it, the more her smirk as she wished her good luck itches at her. It was not a tiding of good fortune. It was a statement of success, similar to the one she felt herself when she got Jasmine to cave.

She wonders, as panic creeps into her ribs, if the plan was ever hers all along. If perhaps, this entire time, she's been playing someone else's game.

She's torn out of her head when the door opens behind her, the Peacekeeper warning her visitor that they have two minutes to converse and say goodbye. When the door closes and Maya whips around, it's an absolute shock to see her mother standing there.

There are tears in her eyes. She's too choked up to speak, so Maya fills the silence for her.

"Don't tell me how disappointed you are." She takes a shaky breath, averting her gaze to the wall behind her. It's too difficult to look her in the eyes. "Don't tell me how stupid this is. Don't tell me—,"

Another surprise as Katy stumbles forward, wrapping her arms around her daughter and embracing her in a bone-crushing hug. It's the tightest she's ever held her, as if it's the first time either of them realized that one day they would have to let go.

Tension fills her limbs as her mother cradles her, sobbing in her shoulder in a manner that can only be described as inconsolable. She can't hug her back—she doesn't know how. Her muscles don't move that way, aren't practiced to respond in any sort of sympathetic gesture.

So she stands in silence and lets her mother hold her, finally bringing her hands to rest on her back and patting awkwardly. It's not nearly the heartfelt moment she's sure it's supposed to be, but it's far more than she was anticipating. Her throat aches.

Finally, her mother pulls back. She takes her in fully, breaking into a watery smile as she pulls her lone braid over her shoulder and twirls the end of it in her fingers.

"Mermaid tail," she whispers, wiping a couple of tears from her cheeks.

Maya feels her own prick the corners of her eyes. She cannot cry, especially not now when the rest of her battle is only just beginning. She offers a stiff nod instead, willing herself to maintain her composure. Considering how much she cried in the middle of the night, hazy as the memory is, she's not sure she has any more tears to give.

When the Peacekeeper returns to take her away, neither of them put up a fight. Her mother gives her shoulders one more tight squeeze until she has to let go, heading out without looking back.

Maya has to respect that. She knows all too well how little room there is for looking back.

* * *

When Maya steps onto the train and enters the main car, she finds she's not the first to arrive.

Thor is already there, arms crossed as he stares out the window at their district disappearing into the blur behind them. Even simply standing there he's imposing, a foot taller than her and likely two steps ahead. Maya knows the statistics of district partners actually remaining allies throughout the Games are unlikely, but she can't decide whether that's a good or bad thing in this case.

"If you hang back like that when the Games begin, you're going to lose your head within the first five minutes."

She jumps a bit when he addresses her. Straightening her shoulders, she saunters further into the room and attempts to reinstall her air of confidence. "Maybe it's a strategy. Says who?"

"I do. Because I'll be the one to do it." He turns slightly to face her, his dissecting glare eerily reminiscent of her former acquaintance's. "I'm not going to let my district counterpart's hesitancy reflect back on me."

"Well, you won't have to worry about that," she says, suddenly angry again as his words give her a defensive push. She faces the window, training her gaze on the blur of the mountains rather than him. "If anything, I suspect you'll need to do a little work to keep up. I don't intend on waiting up for anyone. Not even my counterpart."

This seems to impress him somewhat. He exhales, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, you're definitely not Jasmine."

She feels herself bristle at the comment. "Is that a problem?"

"Hell no. It's a relief." His eyes darken as he scowls, resentment clear in his voice. "The system is flawed. Ever since that coward tried to run all those years ago and they switched up how they do everything, we've been sending weaklings based on a screwed up formula. It doesn't matter how high your marks are in history of Panem, that's not going to keep you alive when another tribute comes at your with a jack knife."

Maya wants to ask him a million questions, first and foremost what he knows about the reason their district strategy shifted so much in the first place. But she figures that would make her seem less prepared than she wants to appear, and she's already walking on thin ice with him. She knows how vital a Career alliance is to starting off strong. She's not going to mess that up before they even get to the Capitol.

"She was pathetic. And she was never going to win." He shrugs. "Was going to do her in myself, save her the misery."

It's a bold statement, particularly coming from a District 2 tribute. Tributes that completely omit the Career pack from their strategy are rare, but they're not unheard of and often times their brute savagery alone gets them well through the Games. In fact, although the maneuver is infrequent, Maya is having trouble thinking of a tribute who pulled it who did not emerge as victor.

She doesn't have time to dwell on what this means for her as they're interrupted by the door to the next car sliding open, two adults joining their party. Blocking her view is a beast of a man with multiple tattoos along his face, obviously covering up scars from a previous Games. He gestures to Thor without a word, nodding to follow him to the next car.

Thor goes without another glance in her direction. As they disappear through the doors, the other guest becomes visible.

She's a petite woman, dark-haired with a tough expression on her face to match the Capitol-grade leather of her jacket. Still, when she locks eyes with Maya, there's an unmistakable twinkle to them that comes off less threatening than her fellow mentor.

"You must be Hart, then," she says, stepping into the room and offering a hand. Maya takes it, sure to demonstrate her firm grip. "I'm Harper."

"Maya," she corrects her. She figures being on a first name basis with her mentor will build a stronger rapport. With only a week until she steps into the arena, she doesn't have time to waste on relationship building. "I remember your Games. Harper Burgess."

Harper nods, examining her. It's not quite critical, but she wouldn't call it reassuring either. "Have to admit, you're not what I was expecting. You're not eighteen, are you?"

"Maybe people need to reevaluate their expectations," she snaps. She doesn't know how many people were aware of Jasmine's selection before the switch, but she doesn't want to be caught under that assumption the whole time.

When she emerges victorious, she wants the win to be hers. No one else's.

Harper raises an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth curling into a slight smile. "Maybe they do."

* * *

Despite how often District 2 claims they're far above the rest of their neighbors, the transition from district life to the glamour of the Capitol is a tough one to swallow.

It's not simply the overwhelming exuberance of every aspect of their surroundings, from the food to the clothing to the exquisite quality of each thing they touch. It's how suddenly they're stars of their very own reality show, endless attention and surveillance dropped upon them twenty-four hours a day. Maya had spent so many years of her life searching for validation, hoping for someone to notice her and give her approval, and now there are so many eyes on her she has no idea how to stomach it.

In some ways, she'd love to just hide away in her luxurious suite. But there are tasks to complete and reputations to uphold, so it's absolutely out of the question.

Considering for all of her life she's only known a few set people, the amount of characters that suddenly float into her life is another overwhelming prospect. There are the many Capitol personnel tasked with catering to her every whim and prepping her for the Games in an endless array of ways she hadn't even contemplated. She thought she had studied the Games well enough to know what to expect, yet she's constantly taken by surprise with another small meet and greet, another training meeting, another stylist session in which three morons in completely ridiculous Capitol garb pick at her eyebrows until they sting.

She spends a lot of the first couple of days digging her nails into her palms. It's a shame when they trim them down to stubs and the pain is no longer sharp enough to distract her from everything else.

The one bright spot to come out of the dark design hours is Shawn Hunter, her assigned stylist. The moment he steps into the room after her first scrub down and walks over to shake her hand, she finds herself speechless.

"You're Shawn Hunter," she says blankly.

He pulls his hand back, running it through his hair subconsciously. "Well. Guess I don't need to be introducing myself, then."

"No, I just meant—," She almost apologizes, swallowing the vulnerability and opting for confidence instead. Not certain what her new secondary mentor is expecting from her. "I've seen your Games. Studied it, really. It's a classic."

"Yes, I'm sure my broadcasted traumas that keep me up at night are quite the pinnacle of classic entertainment." The jab is clearly full of venom, but she can tell it's not directed at her. He sets to taking a closer look at her, taking her face in his hands and tilting her chin gently. "Not the worst blank slate to work with. Always helps to be pretty, believe me."

"Why are you a stylist?" Maya asks, realizing the question comes out rude only after she's asked it. The tone in her voice indicates disillusionment, so she works to correct it. Despite how she may have to come off to others in the coming days, she doesn't want Shawn to think lowly of her. She doesn't want to give off the wrong impression.

He doesn't seem bothered. "My choice. Had to take up an interest after the Games, and photography was only a jump away from this. Better than being a mentor. Best decision I ever made."

Maya wants to ask him more about it, but they run out of time as she's ushered off to the next commitment. He assures her they'll have plenty of time to chat in the coming days.

She and Thor are quickly introduced to their fellow Careers by the insistence of their mentors. The girl from District 1 is Missy Bradford, a trendy and aloof brunette who doesn't seem to have much interest in the endeavor they're about to embark upon aside from the fashion sense of the Capitol. She flouts her hours in the training center with weapons she already knows and flaunts her dress for the interviews with Caesar, pulling Maya aside one afternoon between sessions to show off the pink satin gown.

"Isn't it just to die for?" Missy gushes, obviously missing the irony of her words. "My stylist was so against the pink, because he said it made me look too childish. But it's my favorite color, and if I'm going to die somehow I at least want my last Capitol-made expense to be how I want it."

She's the type of girl who has a lot of complaints about the world around her but not much fire inside, a fact that draws Maya to the conclusion that she isn't going to last very long in the Games. Then again, girls from District 1 rarely do. Perhaps she'll be useful as a shield should things go awry.

At least, that's the way she views her until the second night, when a particularly poor dish is served to her that sends her right off the deep end. The way she smashes her bowl against the ground and demands to see the Avox responsible may or may not be a show—it's hard to tell how much behavior from the tributes is mentor guided versus their true identity shining through—but it's enough to get everyone's attention and everyone talking.

Maybe Missy isn't such an easy target after all. Maya is suddenly glad they're likely on the same team.

Her district counterpart, Billy Ross, seems like the typical 1 offering and doesn't disappoint as a potential ally. He's athletic and quick-witted, and the way he bonds to the rest of them indicates a deep sense of loyalty Maya knows will be essential to her own survival in the arena. So long as she can keep him believing they're on the same page, he'll be putty in her hands until she decides the tables have turned.

In many ways though, she realizes that the reason he's so keen on strengthening their alliance now is less of an interest in her and more of a desire to align himself early and leave others feeling left out. It's a bullying tactic she's rather familiar with from the behavior of top ranked kids at the academy—the quickest way to down someone's morale is to exclude them entirely. Knowing the Careers are tight as ever is enough to set some other tributes off to a shaky start, particularly when they get in the training center and start their next round of emotional manipulation.

"It's practically playground, but it's the oldest trick in the book," Harper explains to her over dinner, Thor and his mentor continuing their own conversation apart from them. Although she's rattling off the strategy obediently, she doesn't seem enthused with it personally. "Find the weak ones, and let them know you're onto them."

So that's what they do. The first couple of days of training, the four of them group together and gawk at the unprepared tributes from the poorer districts who have clearly never had a day of weapons training or enough to eat in their life. Part of her enjoys it, that same part of her that finds satisfaction in her mother's struggle to connect with her and vindication in taking down another girl so she could have her spot in a sport that doesn't truly have any winners anyway.

It isn't until she's alone in her room that the questionable nature of their tactics threaten to keep her awake all night. She thinks about the girl from 7 they picked on that day—Vanessa, she thinks her name is—and how much she reminds her of Renee. How if Renee was here, and not from the privileged position of a Career district, she'd be getting the same snide commentary and obnoxious jeers as she attempts to complete the obstacle course without hurting herself or fumbling the drill.

She doesn't let herself dwell on it for too long. The longer she thinks, the harder it'll be to keep it up. If she's intent on surviving to see the end, there's no room for sympathy either.

In this world, there never has been.

* * *

Determined to ignore the guilt complex that seems to have sprung up inside her in the hours she's supposed to be getting essential rest, it's a relief when Harper informs her she has a new strategy for her to put into action. She's no longer going after the weakest in the pack. She wants her to start taking shots at the threats.

"I'm not saying who may or may not be a threat," she says diplomatically over breakfast, keeping her eyes on her plate. Maya notices how often she keeps her head down, how many of the nuggets of advice feel robotic coming from her mentor's lips. She wants to question it, but she doesn't want to waste any time. Especially if it involves thinking. "That's up to you. But you need to place yourself on the food chain, and it needs to be at the top. Only way to do that is to take down the potential risks."

"We aren't supposed to start fights in training. Won't that look suspicious?"

"They won't expect anything less from you, but you have to be smart about it." Harper locks eyes with her, a mischievous gleam in them Maya hasn't seen before. Suddenly, she can see the spark in her that likely won her own Games when it was her time to shine. "Be careful about it, and you can make it seem like they're the problem to be dealt with. Not you. Put the target on their back. Understand?"

She definitely does, but something about the whole ordeal still won't settle with her quite right. She explains the plan to Shawn as they're going over designs for her interview look, hoping for an opinion to confirm or deny her mixed feelings. Something from him to help guide her in the right direction.

He doesn't offer much, humming in mild interest and continuing to flip through color palettes. Avoiding the discussion, as it seems everybody always is.

It's a completely different ball game, looking at the fellow tributes around her as individuals worthy of knocking down a few pegs rather than a collective group she's supposed to despise on principle. It's a dangerous game, because the longer she considers each of them the more it seems to humanize them incidentally, and she can't afford to do that. She can't afford to humanize them when she's going to have to slaughter them in a few days' time.

Many of the tributes she can write off without a second thought. There are girls like the tall blonde from 5 and the sweet-faced brunette from 9 who exude so much natural purity it's almost depressing that they're trapped in the Games like this when there's no chance in hell they'll make it out alive. The tiny boy from 12 isn't even worth a glance, and even Maya doesn't want to be the one to pick on the twelve year old. It's always tough when there's a twelve year old.

She considers the tributes from her follow-up districts. The bespectacled girl—Isadora—doesn't seem like much of a threat, but there's an electricity in her eyes that warns Maya to stay away. She'll kill her if she has to, of course, but she's never fared well against the brainy types and she doesn't want to try her luck only to have it run out. Charlie and Chai from 4 weren't even impressive enough to garner invitation into the Career pack thus far, so she doubts they'd be worth picking a fight with to divert attention.

The boy from 3, however, she can't figure out. She's heard enough basic information from Missy—a notorious gossip as it turns out, but helpful to say the least—that he's a mayor's son, that he volunteered, that he's known amongst his district as the resident genius. Her head spins trying to piece together why an arguable prodigy from a position of undeniable power as son of a government official would willingly throw himself into the Games, particularly when he doesn't appear to be much of a threat. With his lanky, wiry build and bony hands that spend all their time hanging around the snares station rather than learning anything about weaponry, he's clearly not preparing himself to put up a very hard fight.

She figures she could take him, but there are far too many question marks for her to feel comfortable pulling him under fire. Because like his counterpart, he's a brain, and she's never done well against those. He may just pull one over on her and then she'll really have shot herself in the foot.

She's beginning to narrow down her choice at lunch before training when Thor joins her, sliding into the seat next to her. She tenses instinctively, wishing she could will herself to have better control around her intimidating fellow tribute. Because outright discomfort is obvious weakness, and he's one with which she cannot afford to lose the upper hand.

"That one," he says pointedly into her ear, nodding across the room. "He's your target."

Maya follows his gaze, landing on the male tribute from District 10. He's making his way through the tables in search of a place to sit, nodding at his district counterpart—one of the younger, obvious bloodbath kills Maya neglected to consider on purpose—and heading in her direction.

She'd be lying if she claimed she hadn't been considering him from the start. Aside from Thor, he's the most evident muscle on the field, and his height and broad shoulders indicate a healthier build than most of the other kids fighting for their chance to survive. His expression is hard to read, making it impossible to tell whether or not he's going to be a serious threat with more than enough bloodlust when they hit the ground in the arena. She's tried to tell from afar, but she's found limited success.

From the way he handles his counterpart, however, she gets the feeling he's feebler than he looks. He's protective of her, constantly keeping an eye on her during training and never coming off too intimidating when he's in her presence. Although his concentrated frown while working with the knot tying station is far from friendly, all of that tension and harnessed frustration melts away the moment he joins her.

Maya has no idea which side of him is the real one. And up until that point, she wasn't sure she wanted to find out.

"What makes you say so?"

"Mentor just told me the Gamemakers have been buzzing about him. All this talk about how he's a Career without the correct district of origin." Thor's voice is low, and the tone with which he describes their potential competitor is verging on venomous. "I don't know how capable he actually is, but if we're painting a target on someone's back, it should be him."

Maya can see how this approach makes sense, but something about those broad shoulders makes her uncomfortable in a way that has nothing to do with whether or not he's a threat. She doesn't want to get anywhere near it. "But won't that just help his own game? If we think he's a threat, and then broadcast that we believe so?"

"It's going to force his hand," Billy explains, sliding in across the table to join them. Missy settles next to him, picking discontentedly at her food. "If he wants to impress the Gamemakers like they claim he is, he'll have to take our ridicule. But if he wants the target off his back instead, he'll have to give up their favor in the process."

It's a full-proof plan to knock down an apparently credible threat to their victory, so Maya knows there's no arguing against it. Still, as she glances across the room at him once more, something in her stomach churns.

"Whatever you pull, make sure you kick his ass," Thor states flatly. "Then, you can finish it in the arena."

The sentiment is effective in deconstructing some of the discontent nagging at her. It seems like a simple enough solution to a problem she can't begin to understand brewing inside of her.

When something begins to make you feel ill, you take the right medicine and you kill it before it can spread.

* * *

Maya hangs back as training begins, keeping an eye on her new prey and perusing the stations she's yet to tackle at her leisure. She's decided to codename him Huckleberry, since she has no idea what his name actually is and giving him one would just make the situation so much more complicated. It's a plant she learned grows in his district, so she figures it's fitting enough. Part of her can't wait to say it on live television so the entire world can ridicule him with her.

She's watching him carefully from the plant identification station, waiting for the right moment to strike. He's been meandering his way towards the combat station at a snail's pace, which is frustrating but ultimately for the best considering she wants the confrontation to seem organic. If she had pounced on him the second training started that afternoon, it would've been a dead giveaway that she's the one with bones to pick.

The instant he tentatively reaches for one of the spears on display she's on the move. She's so preoccupied with not losing sight of him that she rams right into someone, knocking both of them to the ground.

"Ouch! Sorry."

"Watch where you're going," Maya snarls, scrambling to her feet to tower over the offender.

It's the girl from District 9, brown hair braided into matching plaits on either shoulder. When she looks up at her with a mixture of fear and ambivalence, Maya can tell her apology she keeps uttering is genuine.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—,"

For some reason, there's an instinct in the pit of her stomach to help her. To pull her to her feet, assure her that it's alright, that it was more so her fault for not paying any attention. Whatever it is about this girl, it's enough to make her want to pause and give her a moment of her time.

Maybe there is more to the girl from 9 than she anticipated. Because the ability to make her instantly want to drop her walls and start a conversation is powerful, and it's more terrifying than anything Maya has ever confronted before.

"It's fine," she says off-handedly, stepping over her without another word. She can feel her curious brown eyes burning into her back as she storms off, back on track with her current mission.

If the chance collision did anything useful, it certainly put that strange desire for violence back into her bones. Getting riled up enough to take on Huckleberry instantly became a lot easier.

She makes a mental note that if she faces Doe Eyes in the arena at any point, she should not hesitate to kill her.

At the current moment, however, she has bigger fish to fry. She waits until she makes eye contact with Missy a few stations away, who immediately sets to distracting the facilitator. Buying her enough time to make her move and make it quick.

She steps onto the platform next to his, eyeing him in the brief seconds where he has yet to notice her presence. He's gripping the spear uncertainly, rolling it in his fingertips and obviously unfamiliar with the weight of it in his hands. He glances up at the target yards away, shaped in the figure of a man and gleaming red with the ideal places to hit for maximum damage.

"How's your aim?" She can't help but smirk when he nearly jumps out of his skin, whipping around to face her. If he's so effortlessly spooked, then she figures he can't be much of an actual threat at all. He's more like a terrified cow, grazing along where his mentor leads him until he's startled by a tipper like herself.

Boy, is she going to tip him over. Suddenly, Maya gets the feeling this is going to be fun.

She takes a spear off the rack and into her hands, handling it with much more expertise than Huckleberry. She spins it between her fingers loftily, raising her eyebrows at him. "I don't know about you, but I personally find one-on-one sparring much more effective. And let's be honest, throwing that spear that distance? You couldn't hit one of us even if we were standing still."

Huckleberry swallows, but he's doing an impressive job of maintaining his composure. He averts his gaze from her, hoping avoiding the situation will encourage her to leave him alone.

"Although, maybe if you're the star wrangler back at cattle camp, your aim is better than I'm allowing for. So I guess we'll just have to wait and see. After our little pre-match here, of course."

"We're not supposed to spar with one another."

His voice is softer than she expects it to be. She's caught off-guard by it, how it doesn't match the hoarse, gruff bark she was envisioning for him. She realizes she was imagining Thor, embedding him with his growl and his mannerisms as if they were the same.

No one is ever going to be exactly like her district counterpart, but she recognizes she has no idea what Huckleberry is actually like. If she lets her mind stay on it any longer, she's going to humanize him, and she knows she isn't letting herself do any of that.

"Come on, cowboy," she says aggressively, hopping down off the other side of the platform with her spear. She backs towards the targets, keeping her eyes on his and raising an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're already scared?"

There's nothing inherently off-putting about his green eyes—in fact, something about them sends the same sort of chill through her that Brandon's inquisitive brown used to and that makes her far more vexed than she'd ever like to admit—but the way they flash dangerously at her words is an excellent sign. There is a side to Huckleberry worth provoking, she just has to find the right way of going about it.

"I'm not afraid of you." His tone is defiant, more defensive than the aggression she's trying to invoke. "I'm not afraid of anything."

She rolls her eyes on instinct, honing in on his tendency to act protectively rather than offensively. She bides her time until she throws a glance in Missy's direction, confirming that no facilitator eyes are on them. The rest of their tributes are deep in their own worlds, focused on their own training.

If she's going to make a move, she has to do it now.

"You're not afraid?" she taunts, stepping forward and swiping the spear in his direction. It just barely nicks his forearm, sending him scrambling back a few paces while he catches up with what just happened. She grins, cocking her head and raising the weapon. "Prove it."

When she lunges again, this time he's ready. He blocks her dig with his spear, shoving her away from him and flipping it back in his hands. Officially in the tangle.

God, is she having so much fun.

It's remarkable how long they get away with sparring, lasting a short while only because Huckleberry is obviously untrained and it's not hard at all to get the upper hand. She milks the dismantling of his stance, knocking at his knees before she jostles the spear out of his hand with the tail end of her own. Jamming the butt of her weapon into his chest she sends him off-balance, making it all so simple to rush forward and slam him to the ground on his back.

The commotion is enough to get the attention of everyone in the room, but she's not done savoring the early victory. She stops his attempt to sit up with a kick to the shoulder, dropping down onto his torso and pressing her foot against his arm. Pinning him, threatening a snapped wrist if he tries anything else.

Maya levels the tip of the spear, tantalizingly sharp, just under his chin. She allows the point to just graze his Adam's apple, getting another rush of that addictive satisfaction when she sees humiliation flush his cheeks.

"Oh, you're going to have to try so much harder than that if you don't want to end up gutted on the other side of this spear, cowboy." She leans in close, making sure he can feel her breath on his cheeks as she gives him one last warning. "And trust me, it'll be my pleasure."

From the expression he gives her seconds before he grits his teeth and shoves her off of him, she can tell that she and her pack made the right decision on who to throw a target on. Huckleberry may seem unimposing enough on the outside, but there's a definite fire burning just under the surface that she would gladly pass on to someone else to take out.

She tries to forget that, along with the strange sensation of his warmth underneath her as the facilitators pry them apart, berating them for breaking training center rules. She shrugs them off and raises her hands in surrender, Huckleberry already gone in the other direction.

When she glances back up, she spots Doe Eyes watching her apprehensively from the plant station. Having observed the whole exchange, eyeing her with an awareness that impacts her the same disgusting way Brandon's offer of a shared drink and Huckleberry's broad shoulders make her sick to her stomach. That confusing way she simply can't process.

If she gets the chance, she promises herself, she's going to kill them both.

* * *

The closer she inches to stepping into her rising platform and into the arena, Maya comes to cherish her calm reprieves with Shawn Hunter.

The chats alone are far and few between, and she finds it unfair that she won't have nearly enough time to ask all the questions she wants to ask of him before their time together is done. She makes herself another promise in that when she emerges from the Games victorious, her first order of business is going to be to pay him a visit. To thank him for all the stellar work he's done, and to continue their tradition of thoughtful, relaxing conversation.

She has no idea what it is, but something about her stylist simply clicks with her. When they talk—about the Games, her life back in District 2, the ridiculous garb of the Capitol—she finds herself able to open up in a way she never has before, in a way that doesn't frighten her like the notion of Doe Eyes does. Maybe it's because she knows he gets it, that he was born from the same soil she was and rose from the same ashen roots of their greying, pathetic hometown.

When she gets to be with him, that part of her that marveled at the cracks in the bathtub and sketched the flowers along the fractures in the pavement feels alive again. It's reborn, and for once Maya doesn't hate the very possibility of its existence inside of her.

"So this is the usual, huh?" Shawn prods her as they're prepping for her interview, referring to the tight, precise bun on the top of her head. He had requested she come to him with a signature look, something he could merely adjust but that feels distinctly her.

She had considered the mermaid braid, but the sting of the memory of her mother barred her from going through with it. No, the bun is the hairstyle she's relied on since she was twelve year old. She knows it's what's going to get her through the Games.

"Sorry it's not glamorous enough for you," she teases, slouching back in the seat turned away from the mirror. She keeps her gaze trained on the dress on the mannequin in front of her—fiery red to accent the natural golden hues of her hair and complexion. "But you get what you ask for."

"No, no, nothing wrong with it."

"Please, go a little harder on me. I can take it."

"Listen, I understand the sanctity of a signature do," he says with humor, running his hands through his hair once again. They settle into content silence as he finishes adjusting the up do, placing an elegant bone barrette in the center of it. It's designed like a flame, meant to match the tones of her gown.

After another moment of silence, Maya speaks again. "Thanks for all of your help. Making me pretty, and all that."

"You know, a stylist can only do so much with the palette given to them. Just like a landscape is only as rich as it is for a photographer to capture. Some of it has to be natural."

"I'm sure my classmates would find that amusing," she snorts, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of her tone. "They sure loved to talk about it whether I wanted them to or not."

"Nickname?" he guesses, patting her shoulders.

"Blonde Beauty."

"Well, that's not so bad. At least it's complimentary."

"Yeah, but of what," Maya complains. She waits patiently as Shawn moves forward to remove the dress from the mannequin, prepping it for her to step into. "It reduces me to nothing more than my blonde hair and my perceived attractiveness. I'm a lot more than that. I deserve to be recognized as a lot more than that."

"I don't doubt that for a second," Shawn says agreeably. He holds the gown out in front of her, waiting for her to slip off her robe and helping her step into it. They cease their commentary as the focus is drawn to securing the ties on her back, holding the dress in place.

When Maya glances at herself in the mirror, she almost can't believe her eyes. Whatever Shawn did to her, whatever he managed to pull out of her blank canvas, suddenly she thinks maybe the nickname couldn't be so far off. For the first time, he's managed to make her look beautiful.

"Can I ask you something?"

She manages to tear her gaze away from her reflection, happy to do so before she disassociates from it entirely. "Sure."

"Why are you doing this?" He leans back against the card table set up behind her chair, clasping his hands together in front of him. "Why are you here?"

She feels her walls go up. "What?"

"You're not eighteen. I know they've changed the protocol, and it's been decades since I've had a tribute younger than that. By all accounts, there's no reason for you to be here. At least not yet."

Maya chews her lip, avoiding his gaze. What minimal comfort she felt sharing around him is slowly sinking out of the room, leaving the familiar cold, empty chill in its place.

"All I want to know is why? Because it can't be the pursuit of glory when you could easily have that next year. And you're far too clever to be pulled in by all of that."

Maya blinks, remembering the long game it took just to get to this point. The deceit, the violence, the chase of a father figure who didn't bother to show up even when he was guaranteed. All of it seemed worth it, was worth it, but from the way Shawn is examining her she doesn't feel quite as secure.

She settles for a redacted version of the truth. "It's in my blood."

Shawn frowns. He crosses his arms.

"This is about your father?"

Maya can't bring herself to admit it. She continues to avoid his eyes, fiddling anxiously with the stray fabric on her dress. Focusing on how surreal it is to be standing in such a nice gown at all, compared to the scratchy cotton she's so used to from home.

"Maya, did you force yourself into this for him?" Shawn's voice is alight with concern. "Did he force you to do this?"

"No one forces me to do anything," she snaps, mirroring his stance and crossing her arms. "I made this choice. I chose to come here. I'm choosing to prove myself and come out victorious. It's what my district deserves. It's what I deserve."

"Whatever you think you're doing for him, he's not worth it."

Her temper flares at the blatant disregard for her father. She grits her teeth, locking eyes with him and shooting him a warning glare. "Don't talk about him that way."

"Who do you think you're impressing? Do you think he gives a damn what you're doing when he's spent the last seventeen years here, drinking himself into a stupor and avoiding all his responsibilities? Even the Games ones?" Shawn scoffs. "You think he's ever even mentored a tribute before? It's a miracle the Capitol hasn't offed him yet for negligence."

Maya feels searing anger shoot through her. "He was a hero. He brought honor to our district just like you did!"

Shawn blinks, shaking his head at her. Realization seems to wash over him as she glowers at him, putting the pieces together that she's clearly missing.

"You have no idea, do you?"

She spits. "About what?"

"The reason they switched up the protocol for choosing tributes, the reason they have such an elaborate scheme for it now." Shawn stares her down, carefully raising an eyebrow. "I'm sure you've heard it was because one academy novitiate tried to escape his Reaping sentence."

The feeling of panic that rushes through her veins is the coldest sensation Maya has ever felt in a life objectively devoid of warmth, and it cools her rage down to insecurity in an instant. She can't wrap her brain around what he's telling her, the reality that everything she thought she knew—about her father, about her legacy, about the whole purpose of the Games or the purpose of anything—may be a complete fallacy.

All she can do is shake her head. "You're lying."

"I wouldn't lie to you. You deserve to know the truth before you step into that arena and fight for his honor."

"You're lying!" Maya feels the hot tears on her cheeks before she realizes they're actually there, flowing freely as the panic spreads into her chest. "My father was a victor!"

"Your father was a coward!" The way he raises her voice propels her to back off, shrinking in spite of herself. "He would rather the entire district go up in flames for his mistakes than confront the possibility that his existence might have consequences. That he may have had to fight for his right to live like every other God forsaken child in these districts. And somehow, he managed to scrape out of it alive, but not before he completely changed everything around him for the worse."

She can't breathe. There's no water, the room is full of air, but her lungs are constricting and she absolutely cannot breathe. Her entire world has been turned upside down, and no one has taught her how to navigate the new one.

All the trouble she went to in the last week, and it means absolutely nothing.

Shawn's anger softens to sympathy as he watches her struggle to absorb it. He makes to step forward, holding out a comforting hand but she shies away from it. Reminded yet again that no matter how comfortable she gets, she will always be unmistakably alone.

A timer buzzes on the countertop of the vanity, startling them both. Shawn swallows, glancing at it and nudging it to silence before turning his gaze back to her.

"Pull it together," he advises her. He hands her his handkerchief, nodding at her to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "You're going live."

Maya nods, taking a moment to piece back together her steely exterior. Keeping it reinforced and unbroken, even if the rest of the world as she knows it has come crumbling down around her. Even if outside of her feisty persona, she no longer has any idea what she's doing there or how she's going to proceed through this bloodbath at all.

Gently, Shawn takes her shoulders and guides her towards the door. Moving her forward without the chance to look back.

* * *

Once the largest piece of her universe turns upside down, it's amazing how quickly the rest of it seems to follow suit.

With the last remaining days before the arena, Maya watches as she's proven wrong again and again. The kid she spent so much effort tormenting pulls a 3 in scoring, an abysmal showing for Huckleberry that even she has to feel a little bit of sympathy for. The boy from 3 she wrote off follows up her score 10 with an 11, wiping her relevancy off the board in a matter of seconds like cosmic karma for perceiving her surroundings so incorrectly.

Thor claims the result for Huckleberry is obviously a tactic, meant to throw them off and make them leave him alone. No one can explain the mayor's boy, who seems to have spontaneously blipped onto the major radar without so much as a warning.

She doesn't know anything. She doesn't understand anything.

It's what she's wallowing in as she rides the transport airship to the arena, far too lost in her own head to offer any commentary. All her fellow tributes seem to share a silent agreement to keep the journey quiet, either also trapped in their own thoughts or too terrified of the coming events to utter a word.

She's grateful for the excuse to pause the aggressive behavior she's been trained to practice all week long. She kept it up even after her interview, but it felt flat. Like she's lost the fire, the usual drive that has cooled to molten rock in her stomach.

She can't get Shawn's look of sympathy out of her head. When she closes her eyes, it's burned into her eyelids along with her mother's soft, sad smile and all those inquisitive glares of the people who seemed to see deep past her icy exterior without much effort. All of the above she wishes she could erase from her memory.

But she can't do that. Fanucchi warned her there was no turning back, and now she has to live with it. Now, she has to survive in spite of it.

She finishes zipping up her provided jacket for her arena uniform as Harper steps into the room, giving her a small smirk and approaching her in the center of the room. "Ready, future victor?"

"As I'll ever be," Maya states, but her confidence falters with how raspy her voice is. She clears her throat, attempting to brush past the moment.

Harper gives her a pass, choosing to ignore the moment of weakness. "You have everything you need? You remember your opening game plan?"

"Bloodbath is ours, everyone else will try to run. Take over Cornucopia as soon as possible, gather supplies. Take out whoever lingers too long for comfort, and whoever else I so choose is worth the battle."

Harper nods along, but Maya gets the feeling she's not really listening. She's busy nitpicking at the bun atop her head, making sure it's as put together as ever.

"Shawn told me to check this was all set and ready for a battle." She locks eyes with her mentee, offering a fond smile that feels genuine despite how distant she's been for a majority of the week. "Wants you to be memorable. Iconography is a big part of that."

"You hate it, don't you?"

Harper raises an eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate.

"Being a mentor." Maya clears her throat again, clenching her fists to stop the trembling of her fingers. "Being a victor. None of it was worth it. Was it?"

"Surviving is always worth it," Harper disagrees. She examines Maya curiously, sensing the shift in her persona from when they first met. Noticing something is off, different than before, but nowhere near close enough to figure it out.

Maya understands the confusion. She has no idea what changed either, or if she'll ever be able to put it back. She doesn't know if who she was when she arrived here was even who she actually is anyway. She can't remember the last time she knew who she was, what she cared about, what matters to her that the Capitol hasn't indoctrinated her to value.

She doesn't even have a district token, which she figures speaks volumes in it of itself. She's always found them silly, a sappy, flashy display of emotion meant to garner favor from the sponsors who have a heart. Now she's realizing maybe it means so much more than that, more than she could ever comprehend. It means a sense of identity, something grounding you no matter how far away you go and reminding you of the home that's rooting for you every fighting breath you take.

Maya's well aware that she doesn't have that. Despite the emphasis their district puts on their tributes before their successes or failures, she wonders if she ever had it from the start.

"60 seconds," the speaker overhead warns them, crackling before shorting out.

Maya whips around, avoiding Harper's eyes and marching towards the tube waiting for her in the corner of the room. Desperate to get this thing going and get some of that fire back in her veins that violence has always fanned. Without it, she doesn't think she'll make it out alive.

"You want advice?" Harper says suddenly, jogging to catch her steps before she enters the cylinder. She comes to stand in front of her, taking her shoulders and waiting for her to meet her gaze. "You want to know the secret to success?"

Maya nods, eyes widening. Above them, the speaker warns half a minute remaining.

"Fight for yourself. You asked if it was worth it and I said it always is, but that's not true. Whatever happens in that arena, whatever challenges you face or decisions you have to make, don't do it for anyone but yourself. Live for yourself." Harper holds her gaze, tightening her grip on her shoulders. "Otherwise, it's not worth surviving."

The sentiment is supposed to be reassuring, but all it does is cause Maya's nerves to skyrocket. Her limbs shake as Harper lets her go and she steps stiffly into the glass cylinder waiting for her, trying to comprehend her words and twist them into something she's programmed to understand.

How can she live for herself, when she doesn't even know who she is? When she feels as though she's never really known at all?

The cylinder slides closed around her, and all at once the platform is shuddering beneath her feet and she's moving. Levitating upwards, inching closer and closer to the beginning of the end for twenty-three of the teenagers taking the same path she is. Sharing the same final moments of silence, the final moments of peace before the bloodbath.

Maya forces herself to get a grip. She forces the insecurity and uncertainty back under the ground with her art and her mother's warmth and Shawn's easy conversation. She can focus on that when her work here is done, when she's standing victorious and has earned the right.

Instead, she gathers all the hardness and grit and strategy she's spent the last six years tirelessly absorbing. She brings it to the forefront, setting her expression into the most practiced intimidating glare she can muster and holding her breath. Demonstrating her preparedness for whatever happens next.

She feels the warmth of sunlight hit her shoulders. She doesn't let herself exhale. Not until that gong sounds and the Games begin.

When she fully emerges, it's too bright for her to take in the scenery. She can hear the robotic voice of the Gamemakers counting down from 10, still withholding oxygen from her lungs and frantically forcing her eyes to adjust to the light.

3\. 2. 1.

Maya coughs out a breath as the gong rings in her ears and her feet hit the ground.

Time to prove it.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hey all! I was determined to get this update done before I exceeded a three month hiatus, and boy was there so much more to explore about District 2 than I originally anticipated. I went off of what I knew from the original source material and the wiki, but I definitely took some liberties as well to fit Maya's story and I hope it paid off!

Next up, our OG protagonist Riley Matthews, and then the Games begin... if you're still reading, thanks a bunch and hope you're enjoying the ride. :) See you in three months! (Just kidding, hopefully).


	4. Riley Matthews, Living Legacy -- Part 1

Depending upon who you ask, some might say that the Matthews family is cursed.

It's a rare sort of fate, seeing every single eligible child in a family get sent to an arena to fight to the death. As far as the history of District 9, the Matthews are the only one to ever carry such a burden. Regardless of family size, most clans only worry about the chance of having one child sent off to their near inevitable death. The idea of worrying about much more seems like too much to handle, let alone on a scale of four.

Yet that's what Amy and Alan Matthews endure, watching with resignation as child after child gets Reaped in some cruel twist of fate. After Eric's miraculous victory and return home, most of the district assumed they would never have to fret for anything again. The Victor's Village is so glamourous, after all, and the compensation so generous. No doubt they could afford to never buy another tesserae, saving the skin of Eric's three younger siblings indefinitely. Certainly, that should be the luck of a certified district hero.

But then Cory is Reaped at the young age of fourteen. Morgan, their only daughter, follows a decade or so later when she's sixteen. All of their strategies are different, their arenas vastly dissimilar, promising a new kind of torture for the whole family as yet another one of them is sent off to die.

Depending on who you ask, however, others will tell you the Matthews family is blessed with their own unique kind of luck. Because somehow, for every child they sent to the Capitol to fight for their life, they come home alive and only mildly scarred. Three Victors from one family is no simple feat, and by the time Morgan returns home a hard-fought champion with blood under her fingernails and rage branded into her DNA the whole district has determined they're a local phenomenon.

When Cory goes on to marry Topanga Lawrence, the brightest young woman in town and heir apparent to the mayoral chair, it seems to seal the deal. For everything they've endured and survived, nothing can hurt them now. The immortal Matthews, undeterred by the most violent of challenges, protected by some higher power so strong they practically seem untouchable.

That is, until Joshua Matthews.

From the start, Josh had been a bit of a surprise. After Eric and Cory were both Reaped and when Morgan still had six years of potential Reapings to go, Alan and Amy decided they were not going to bring any more potential victims into the world. But for whatever reason the universe had a different plan, and Josh Matthews was born in the cold snap of a particularly chilling February. Stress and adverse conditions threatened Josh's life from the moment he was brought into the world, but he managed to pull through and prove himself a Matthews through and through by how resilient he already seemed to be.

Breaking expectations, yet always upholding the family name. That was Josh's mode of operation, from birth all the way through a mischievous childhood.

So when the Matthews curse came to claim Josh his fifteenth year, no one seemed to think much of it. Josh was far more clever than Eric, and he had won his Games fair and square. Josh was far more driven than Cory, willing to do whatever it takes to achieve his ambitions. Josh was just as physically capable as Morgan and far more naturally charming. If anyone seemed perfectly groomed to uphold the Matthews legacy of life, there was simply no better candidate.

Riley can remember the night they sent him away. She can remember Topanga holding her in bed as she cried, speaking with her usual level-headed assurance as she convinced her everything would turn out alright. She hardly seemed concerned, and Josh was the best their district had to offer. He'd be home to them in no time.

As it were, however, Josh Matthews had always been good at breaking expectations.

Riley watches the way her youngest uncle's death changes her entire world before her very eyes. She sees her seemingly tight-knit and untouchable family unravel, grief tearing their bonds to shreds and sending all of them in different directions.

The sheer loss of a child after surviving so much sends her grandmother into a state, her health deteriorating and appetite fading away until she too passes away not long after the Games end that year. With his children constantly bickering and the loss of his wife heavy on his shoulders, Alan moves out of the Victor's Village and reintegrates back into the humdrum of the district. He never comes around to visit, and for whatever reason Topanga seems keen not to speak about him at all.

Morgan retreats into seclusion in her manor after a particularly nasty argument with Eric, the details of which Riley never learns but knows severed their relationship in a way she may never understand. Eric takes many trips to the Capitol for reasons no one ever bothers to explain to her, spending a majority of the year away from District 9 and as far from the rest of the family as possible. Even still, both of them return each year as the Reaping rolls around again, prepared to perform their duties as mentors for yet another couple of hopeless children.

Although the tension still resonates within their family dynamic nearly four years later, Riley still looks forward to the season for the sole purpose of seeing so much of her loved ones come back together again. It's tradition for the mayor to hold a gathering in celebration of former Victors, and Eric and Morgan are always in attendance even if they avoid one another the rest of the calendar year.

So even if Riley is up late at night fretting over the inevitable dread of the Reaping just days away or biting her nails down to buds, she's grateful there's something to look forward to amidst all the devastation. If the Reaping is good for anything, at least it brings them all together again.

She can't help but think about that very notion as she's hidden away in the memorial chamber, completing her chores by dusting the plaques and portraits of all the Matthews that came before her. It's her least favorite chore, but one that needs to be done. If they're going to honor the memory of her ancestors, the least she could do is make sure they're polished.

Riley knows the reason she dislikes the task is because she so strongly dislikes the memorial chamber. It feels more like a museum than a display of mourning, not one picture out of place or speck of sentimentality present. It's simply a dimly lit portrait gallery, stone walls making it feel as cold physically as it does emotionally and looking more like a cellar than anything else.

As she dusts, she makes a pointed effort to avoid the portrait of Josh. Something about the image has always haunted her—the way his eyes are so bright and his smile so life-like even though neither of those things exist anymore in the present day. She hates how the smile captures so much of the warmth he used to give her, even though the rest of the space feels so empty and cold.

She glances up at the photo of her grandmother instead, expression soft and smile light. Although she still resents the location in which the portrait is hung, this one makes her feel less resentful when she look at it. Perhaps because it seems more fitting to be in a space so dominated by death. Yes, her grandmother wasn't all that old, but she was older than Josh.

Somehow, her death feels a little more fair.

Finishing up the last bit of dusting, Riley gathers her supplies and slips out of the chamber as silently as she entered. Trying not to get caught up in imagining her own portrait hanging up amongst the rest in just a few weeks' time, if the curse continues into the next generation as everybody seems to be waiting to see if it will.

She doesn't want to picture her smiling face up there next to Josh's, appearing full of the life she carries inside her now but ultimately empty and flat with the truth of her unfortunate demise.

* * *

Riley is used to the mansion bustling the week before the Reaping, but she has to admit shouting is an unusual presence.

She hears it from the hall as she's returning the cleaning supplies to their storage closet, hesitating as the voices rise in volume the longer their conversation seems to go on. She listens for a moment from afar, but isn't able to make out the words or the voices. Knowing it could very well be anybody in the town coming to complain to their mother for a problem that's often out of their hands—and oh, how often are there problems that even the mayor can't solve—Riley jogs her way down the stairs and towards the dining area where the commotion seems to be coming from.

The closer she gets, the more she's able to differentiate the voices and to whom they belong. She recognizes one as her mother, her tone uncharacteristically defensive as she attempts to argue over the other member of the conversation. The slower but equally heated tenor belongs to none other than her uncle Eric, likely having just returned home for the week's festivities.

Riley continues to head towards the room in the excitement of seeing her favorite uncle, but the topic of conversation makes her pause before stepping into the room.

"You realize what you're suggesting, don't you?" Eric says harshly. "How such a maneuver abuses your power without a shadow of a doubt—,"

"It's not a _maneuver_ , please, be more dramatic," Topanga fires back.

Cory attempts to intervene, her father's soft voice weakly breaking into the discussion. "It was only an idea, but she's made no moves to implement it—,"

"It's a contingency plan," her mother continues, so self-justifying in tone Riley is surprised to hear the amount of venom leaking into her words. "You can judge me all you want, but I don't believe for a second that if you were in my situation you wouldn't consider the same."

"There's a difference between contemplating and considering, Topanga. A spare thought, sure, but it seems like from what you've told me you have the whole agenda already laid into place."

She has to make them stop. She knows her family bonds are frayed enough as it is, and she doesn't want anything else suddenly worsening them to the point that Eric disappears out of her life for good. Whatever they're fighting about, she figures it can't be worth it.

The tense silence as good a time as any, Riley decides to make her entrance before her mother can formulate another heated response. "Am I interrupting something?"

All three of them jump, startled by her arrival. It's obvious to Riley that they're examining her, quickly trying to assess how much she may or may not have heard of their argument. Whatever it is, they evidently do not want her to know.

Eric manages to salvage the moment, breaking into a beam and walking around the dining table to make his way towards her. His arms are already open wide for a hug. "No, I think you're just on time. But this hug is long overdue, come here."

Riley feels her own smile bloom across her face as she meets her uncle halfway, reveling in the bone-crushing embrace he wraps her in. She hugs back tightly, absorbing the one factor of Reaping week that makes the entire thing feel worth it. The return of her most beloved people in the world.

* * *

Despite how fiercely Eric and Topanga were arguing the day he arrived home, the discussion ceases to come up again while she's in their presence. Occasionally, Riley can hear her parents talking intensely behind the closed door of their bedroom across the hall from hers or her mother up working late into the night, but the latter isn't necessarily out of the ordinary and for her money she would rather choose to forget about it. With everything else on the agenda in the next few days, she's certain it's none of her business.

Her attention is definitely otherwise occupied, watching as the district transforms itself in preparation for the Reaping. People begin pulling out their best attire, the ones that remain in storage all year to avoid wear and tear and getting chewed by moths in the winter. Some townsfolk take up the extra chore of helping clean up the square in front of city hall, taking on hours of additional physical labor for a meager pay off.

Riley puts most of her effort into pretending life is proceeding as normal, attempting to get through the school day without notice and then spending as much time as possible outside the outskirts of the Victor's Village before she has to return home. She's never been particularly clever or charming, and trying to make friends when everyone knows you as the girl whose mother might condone your name getting pulled out of the bowl on Reaping Day, or approved the staff cutting that lost your father his only paying job, or who might rat you out on principle if you slip up and mention the work your mother does at the Hob…

Simply put, while there are advantages to being in the mayoral bloodline, Riley has always found the status somewhat isolating.

But she's adaptive, and she's always been good at making the most of a bad situation—a dynamite trait to have according to her grandfather, considering the world they live in. So she found other ways to create moments of joy in her daily routine, making sure to stop by the pastures where the animals are kept to say hello before finding a spot near the district line to hide away for a while. Her backpack is constantly heavy with the weight of novels siphoned from her mother's study, books she's aware she's not supposed to be indulging in considering no one else in her class is allowed them. But no one is going to stop her if no one is paying her any attention, so she's never run into the issue of getting caught with them.

Sometimes when she's hiding out in the underbrush, Riley can't bring her mind to focus and allows herself to daydream instead. She's not sure what exactly she's so desperate to explore in the world of her imagination that books can't offer her, but when those days creep up on her it's all she can do not to get caught up in the mayhem of the reality of her district.

Riley thinks she might like a change of scenery. She never knows where she might go, but the potential to go somewhere else, be someone else and do anything, is a rather alluring prospect. Perhaps she could follow her uncle to the Capitol, just to see what takes him there for so many days out of the year. It's supposedly quite the spectacle, after all.

Somehow, she thinks she'd rather stay somewhere closer to what she's known. District 10 has always seemed lovely—likely just as desolate as 9, she knows, but at least they have more animals. She figures the destination doesn't actually matter so much, as what would make the change feel fulfilling is to have people to share the new world with. To not feel like an outsider in her own district and a liability within her own home, so long as she's still at an age where her name could be called out on the morning of the Reaping just like everyone else.

Fact of the matter is, she's not nearly as capable as Josh. If he didn't have a chance, she knows without a doubt she'd be an absolute goner.

For whatever reason, this year is already promising to be different. When she arrives at school the last day before the weekend of the Reaping, she's immediately accosted by one of her most friendly yet most pointedly nosy classmates.

"Is it true?" Haley asks the moment Riley enters the school building, coming up to her side and falling in step with her towards their classroom. "Riley, you have to tell me if it's true."

Haley Fisher has been Riley's classmate since they were in primary, and she's probably the closest thing to a friend she has. Effortlessly pretty and sharp as a tac, Haley climbed her own way up the social ladder through strategic charm and knowing how to make the most out of whatever cheap clothing got passed down to her from her older sisters. She's one of the more well-off children in the district, her family profiting not from the grain production her father runs or the sewing jobs her mother picks up to make ends meet but rather from their most skilled trade—sharing secrets.

So Haley's penchant for gossip is near hereditary, but that doesn't mean it helps Riley understand it any better. While she's grateful her oldest classmate has never turned her back on her and always remained kind, she is almost always rambling on about something Riley has no grasp of considering how removed she is from the rest of their social sphere.

Riley hugs the strap of her book bag closer to her chest. "You'll have to give me a little bit more than that, Hales."

"Well, if you didn't immediately recognize what I'm talking about, then my assumption is you don't know." Haley raises an eyebrow, examining her inquisitively. "Because I'm fairly certain if you knew, you'd be trying your absolute best to hide it. One way or another."

Her friend also has the rather strong talent of elevating her anxiety. She doesn't know what Haley is referring to, but all the sudden she gets the feeling that whatever it is, she should be feeling fairly guilty over it. "What are you talking about?"

Haley tilts her head at her, giving her a sympathetic look. Then she glances around them, making a theatrical show of checking that no one else is eavesdropping. Seeing as Riley has the miraculous gift of being invisible, they're hardly interesting to the rest of their classmates passing by.

Gently, she takes her wrist and leans in conspiratorially. "You know how you always disappear into the fields for lunch alone like some kind of stray cat?"

Riley blinks. Not how she'd put it, but she supposes it's not inaccurate. "Sure?"

"Well, don't. Not today. Meet me outside the school house when we're dismissed for afternoon recess. There's someone I want you to meet."

Haley nudges her arm playfully before spinning on her heel and taking off down the hall, not leaving Riley any room for questions. Frustrating, seeing as she has about hundreds that seemed to have bloomed with the anxiety in her chest.

Instead, she bites the inside of her cheek and finishes her trek to the classroom. Keeping her head down and hoping her invisibility holds up in spite of whatever rumors are swirling around to disrupt it.

* * *

When Riley finally meets up with Haley on the back steps of the school house, she's processed about every worst case scenario in her head. She neglected to pay any attention during the lecture on history of Panem, so she hopes there's no assessment coming up that she'll have to project her worries onto once this weekend is done.

Haley greets her with a light smile, waving her over. Without waiting for a greeting she begins the trek towards the town square, where many students gather for the lunch hour.

"Where are we going?"

She shushes her, holding up a hand. They pass by the city hall, where evidence of the annual tradition hanging over their heads is beginning to populate the square. "We get there when we get there. What's the old saying? If you keep going so fast you'll miss all the flowers, or something."

 _Stop to smell the roses._ It's one of Riley's favorite sayings, its origins unknown to her aside from the fact that her grandmother used to say it all the time. It's something she and Josh spent a lot of time bonding over, the idea of what that phrase actually meant. The act of observation, searching the world for beauty even in the darkest of places.

"Haley, you're the quickest person I know," she says in lieu of all the emotional baggage that seems to have sprung up in her memory.

Haley shrugs. "Why, thank you. Anyway, we're almost there."

They've left the showier town square and are making their way through the side streets, depicting the harsher yet more accurate reality of a majority of the residents of District 9. Family-owned shops that don't receive nearly enough business, ratty clothes hanging out of windows to dry in the hot summer wind. Kids too young or perhaps too busy to attend school, perpetually covered in grime and completing household chores like a game as they've learned them their entire lives.

It's the poorest part of the district, the vast majority of poverty that gets lost in the weeds and conveniently hidden away when the Reaping comes around each year. No matter how many fanciful decorations they erect in the square, no matter how much effort her mother puts into making the district seem better off than it is, walking around these avenues of crumbling homes makes the truth impossible to ignore.

Riley feels distinctly like she's crossing a line. Like her mere presence is a punishable offense, an unfair reminder to the rest of the population that she's so much better off simply because of her parentage and that she gets to enjoy a decent living situation for surviving brutal Games she herself never had to play.

"I don't think we should be here," she whispers, glancing over her shoulder. A shutter closes over a nearby window just as she turns their way, sending a chill down her spine.

Haley waves her off, approaching one of the humblest shacks of the bunch. "Don't be dramatic. And wipe that sad puppy look off your face, you're making yourself look guilty."

Riley presses her lips together, folding her arms over her chest and making herself as small as possible as Haley lifts her hand to knock on the front door. She raps lightly three times, tossing her a look over her shoulder.

For a moment, nothing. "Maybe they're not home."

"Wait for it," Haley says wisely, holding up a finger.

True to her word, a couple of beats later Riley hears the lock on the other side of the door slide open. The creaking door pulls back just a crack, enough for a girl a few years younger than them to peer outside.

"Open up, Selena," Haley says, clearly familiar with her. "It's just me."

"Oh," is all the girl offers. She leaves the door open and disappears from the frame, giving Haley and Riley access to the space without further discussion.

Haley leads the way into the ramshackle house, navigating the narrow walkways with relative ease. Riley has to struggle to keep up, far too distracted by the decrepit and cluttered state of the structure to notice which way they're heading. She can't wrap her head around the size of it, how she feels as though she could fit the entire home in the memorial chamber in their mansion in the Victor's Village. It makes her itchy with shame, even though she still isn't sure why they're there in the first place.

When they finally stop in the meager living area, she's surprised by how hectic the room seems to be. It's obviously a work station rather than a comfortable place to recline after a long day, scores of tattered and worn clothes in various stages of cleaning. She recognizes she must be seeing one of those home businesses in full operation, taking over a majority of what's supposed to be an escape from the dull labor of their district.

Selena is nowhere to be seen, but about three other girls with similar build and features are occupying the space in her absence. Two of them are definitely younger—no older than ten—but are methodically folding the clothes that have been already laundered with expert precision.

The eldest is seated on the couch, hunched over what Riley can tell is a Reaping Day dress and painstakingly attempting to sew rips in the seams back together. Although her hair is curtaining her face, Riley recognizes the girl as one of their classmates.

"Clarissa," Haley says, stepping through the jumble of cloth and coming over to join her friend. "Look who I brought."

Clarissa lifts her head, glancing towards her friend before locking eyes with Riley. She's evidently surprised to see her, which checks out considering how much effort Riley puts into skating under the radar as it is. After a moment, her lips curls into a shy smile.

"Riley, you know Clarissa," Haley prompts, plopping down on the ratty couch next to her.

Riley feels as though her feet are nailed to the floor. She doesn't feel apt enough to navigate the space without Haley's guidance, and she would hate to send the careful process of their work into disarray with her clumsiness.

So she clasps her hands together in front of her and nods, offering a smile in return. "Yeah, of course. Good to see you."

"Who's Riley?" one of the little sisters pipes up, not even looking up from their work to ask the question.

"You could afford to be a little more polite, Lyra," Clarissa criticizes, using a tone Riley is all too familiar with. It's the tone of an older sibling having to play parent, the way she often does with Auggie when her parents are too busy with mayoral duties to help him with homework or take him to the square. Clarissa looks to her again, smile widening. "Especially considering she's the mayor's daughter."

"The daughter of the mayor?"

The other sister crinkles her nose. "Well, what the heck is she doing here?"

"Honestly, I'm kind of wondering the same thing," she admits, tossing a sideways glance to Haley.

Her friend nods and gestures them to another room, angling for a better sense of privacy. Clarissa climbs to her feet, laying the cotton dress carefully on the ironing board in front of her. "Lyra, try to get that pile done before lunch is over. We need to start the next load if we want to get these orders done before Sunday."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Clarissa gives Riley a polite smile and leads the way towards the back door, pushing it open and allowing the three of them to step out onto the porch. The echo of their work seems to follow them, more and more clothes hanging on the railings and gathered in bags by the doorway. They stay on the rickety porch under the cover of the wooden awning, a light drizzle beginning to fall from the overcast sky.

"Ugly weather," Haley comments nonchalantly, hopping onto the railing and sliding a couple of shirts out of the way.

"I don't understand," Riley begins, eyeing Clarissa as she makes a point of adjusting Haley's haphazard move. "Why aren't you in school? I didn't see you in class this morning."

"It's not a big deal, just a lot to do," she responds, keeping her focus away from her. She pushes some hair behind her ear. "We always get a rush right before the Reaping, so there's way more work this week than any other. I usually take the time away to help make sure we get all the orders done on time."

"It's the family business," Haley sings under her breath.

Riley absorbs this, the blatant reality of just how deeply some of her classmates have been pulled under the surface. Trapped into life sentences they never asked for, bargaining for the best way to make the most of a bad situation. She thought she had a knack for it, but now she realizes she's barely even begun to utilize the strength. She's hardly needed it.

Clarissa shrugs, embarrassed by the attention. "It is what it is. And provided everything goes well on Sunday, it'll be worth all the effort. Even if the unthinkable happens, at least my sisters will get the profit of it."

Riley frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Unbelievable," Haley muses, straightening up and raising her eyebrows. "They really didn't tell you, did they?"

Immediately, her mind jumps back to the argument she overheard only a few days prior. She starts running through what she can remember of it in her head, frantically searching for the puzzle pieces she's missing. That she apparently should know, that for some reason has pulled her classmate into the fray without her knowledge.

Haley slips off the railing, coming over to stand next to Clarissa. She pats her shoulder, giving Riley a pointed look.

"Riley Matthews," she declares, pausing. "Meet your back-up plan."

* * *

Contingency. That's the word her mother had used when she spoke at length about her grand plan that Eric so vehemently hated. An emergency exit, a failsafe, a life vest to get them out of an otherwise unideal situation.

Riley had no idea what her mother had been referring to when she accidentally overheard the conversation, but now she can understand Eric's anger. She feels it deeply, coursing through her veins like electricity as she attempts to wrap her brain around her mother's ridiculous scheme.

Her contingency was not a course of action, it was a person. A whole person with a future and family just like Riley, apparently worth so much less than her that she could afford to be paid off to do the unthinkable when the time came.

Clarissa Cruz is Riley's failsafe. Should the worst happen and her name get drawn on that fateful Sunday morning, it is purportedly Clarissa's job to volunteer in her place and protect her from having to face the horrors on her own. In return, Topanga will give the Cruz family an undeniably helpful sum of money as well as take extra care to see to it that they have enough supplies to get through the winter. Winters are notoriously rough in District 9.

Riley knows there's no way Clarissa could say no. How could she, when she has three younger sisters who need money to eat at night and many more winters ahead to endure? How could she, when she's already skipping out on lunches and school days to help run the home business just to scrape by?

Her mother is incredibly bright, gifted in many senses of the word. She's smarter than anyone else Riley has ever known, and that's why her devising this plan makes complete sense to her. As much as she wanted to believe it wasn't true, the more Haley told her what her father had heard through the grape vine and Clarissa confirmed, it seemed too crafty and specific to be false.

Topanga found one of the many vulnerable girls in their district and negotiated a way to protect her own. She did this out of love, Riley knows, but she also did it because she decided her life was worth more than any of her classmates. Simply because of her legacy, simply because the Matthews have endured enough and lost enough even though Riley herself has done absolutely nothing.

She's practically seething with rage when she storms into the mansion that afternoon, skipping out on the rest of school to confront the situation head on. Only her parents aren't home when she arrives in the entryway—only Aunt Morgan, pouring herself a glass of whiskey in their kitchen as if she's there all the time and not just showing up in their orbit for the first time all year.

From one glance at Riley and the flush in her cheeks, Morgan can tell what Riley has come to know. And evidently she knew too, because all she does is smirk as she raises the whiskey glass from the countertop.

"Found out about your mother's little emergency exit, did you?"

Riley can't even bring herself to speak. Suddenly, the extravagance of the home she did nothing to earn feels far too imposing. She's suffocating in the luxury, fighting the urge to vomit or tear it all to shreds with her bare hands.

Morgan clocks her hesitancy, nodding knowingly. Cheekily, she raises her glass in mock cheer. "To the Matthews family luck, am I right?"

She knocks the drink back. Riley has never known how exactly to connect with her aunt, and she figures now isn't the time to try and figure it out.

Without a word, she storms back out of the house and back towards town, letting her legs carry her in the direction she's supposed to go. Searching for somewhere to work through her emotions, hoping to avoid any more watchful eyes or whispering townsfolk as the rumor inevitably spreads through the district.

She ends up on the other side of the district line, out in the farmland where the homes grow farther and fewer between. Not exactly the most connected part of the community, but one of Riley's favorite places for its quiet simplicity and sense of reservation.

The reason for her travels is evident the moment she spots the vaguely familiar ranch house tucked down by the corner, just before the electric fence that keeps the population of District 9 well ensnared in their humble dwelling. It's been ages since she's come this far from home, and years since the family spent a majority of their time here. It's odd to her to think that before she was born, this is where her father spent all of his childhood.

She steps up to the front door and knocks, only for there to be no answer. She's about to give up and head back towards the square when she hears a grunt from around the side of the house. The sounds of manual labor, wholly unfamiliar to the Victor's Village.

Peeking around towards the backyard, Riley finds her grandfather crouched over a patch of vegetables along the back of the house. He's working hard, flannel drenched in sweat and face splotchy and red from the sun. But he's determined, and he doesn't appear at all disgruntled as he puts in the effort to upkeep his own place.

"Grandpa."

Alan lifts his gaze from the plants, blinking in disbelief when he sees her standing on his lawn. "Riley?"

She nods, not sure how to explain her presence verbally. She doesn't want to tell him about it considering he already abandoned the rest of their family, although now that she's discovering secrets of her own she decides maybe his isolation isn't all that odd.

"What are you doing all the way over here?" He wipes his brow, squinting in the sun. "School day isn't over yet, is it?"

"Let out early," she lies, crossing her arms. She stares down at the gardening in front of him. "Do you need some help?"

Alan examines her. It's clear he doesn't believe her, but he elects not to push the issue further. He rolls his shoulders with a pointed groan, subtly emphasizing how much work she's getting herself into before she willingly offers her help.

"Well, not particularly. But I'm not fool enough to pass up help if it's being so freely offered."

Riley can't help but smile, already remembering how fond she was of her grandfather and his unique brand of cheek. He's a realist, intensely grounded, but he's always had a twinkle in his eye that she sees in her father and her uncles.

For everything they've lost, their family never talks about Alan. There's no plaque for him hanging in the memorial chamber even though he's never around. He's only a few miles away, yet it feels like he's gone forever the moment she steps back into the Victor's Village he so happily left behind. It's startling, she realizes, how everyone can spend so much time mourning those who left without agency that they can completely neglect to miss the ones who walked away from them by choice.

Riley kneels down next to her grandfather, grateful to have stumbled back into his company again. She allows him to teach her exactly what chore needs to be done before the two of them settle into work, the sun beating down and silence settling comfortably between them.

There's something about the exertion of actual work that feels refreshing. She doesn't mind the way the dirt gets under fingernails and in the crevices of her skin. The way her shoulders begin to ache from leaning to tend to the garden is strangely satisfying, a burden she's more than happy to carry even if it's only for a moment. As if for a moment, she's taking some of that weight off the shoulders of her fellow district neighbors.

For a moment, she's contributing to something that actually matters.

"Although I appreciate the labor," Alan says after a few more minutes of silence, settling back on his heels and wiping the dirt from his hands. "I get the sense that you're not here just because you felt like now would be as good a time as any to stop by."

Uncle Eric had always been good at reading people, seemingly knowing things without anyone having to tell him one way or the other. Riley assumes now she's observing where he gets this skill from. She avoids eye contact with him, finishing tucking a sapling into the dirt with tender care to dodge the question.

Alan sits back, releasing a sigh and tilting his face up towards the sun. She can't help but notice how much tanner he is than the rest of her family—a side effect of actually existing in the world rather than shying away from it, she supposes.

"You gonna tell me why you ended up all the way out here, or what?"

She knows she can't avoid him much longer. She is trespassing on his property after all, and although they're family Riley knows how quickly that can mean nothing within her bloodline. She echoes his exhale, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"Why don't you come to the Village?" she counters, soft with hesitancy but unable to hold back the question. Now that she's spent even a fraction of time with him, she can't believe she's wasted so much of it not being with her grandfather. Especially given how down to earth he is, the calm energy he seems to radiate just from life experience and a level head on his shoulders. "You're never around much anymore. Not since—,"

"Joshua. Yeah, not since then, huh?" Alan pauses, a thoughtful expression on his face. He shifts his gaze to his granddaughter, eyeing her curiously. "I'm guessing since you're here with me for whatever reason, you're getting a sense of what I must've been feeling the moment I left as well."

Riley doesn't know where to begin. The sensation of having so much advantage yet having done nothing to earn it? The guilt of knowing there are hundreds, thousands of people in the district you're supposed to represent who are far worse off than you and likely far more deserving? The numbing reality that even when you're full of privilege you're still going to have to cheat your way to safety, because so much of their world is cruel and grossly corrupt and in just a few short days another two dozen children are going to be sent to die for no other reason than decades old vengeance?

Instead, she merely shrugs. "I wouldn't know what you're referring to, so I can't say."

The ghost of a smirk graces his lips, tickled by her subtle sarcasm. "Sounds exactly like something your youngest uncle would've said." He gets to his feet, taking his time and joints creaking all the way up. When he rises to his full height he offers her a hand, helping her back up. "Come on. There's something I think you should see."

Alan leads the way down the fields, stretching on back towards the district line and the forest in the distance. He surprises her when he doesn't stop at the fence, heading right for it without the slightest hesitation.

"Grandpa!" Riley cries out, wondering if maybe he's more senile than he appears. When he pauses and spins to face her, she finds herself lost for words at the amused look on his face. "I just—that fence is—,"

"Dangerous? Yeah, so we might think," he agrees. Then he gestures Riley forward, waiting for her to come by his side.

Leaning down, he picks up a small piece of gravel and turns it in his fingers. He holds it up so Riley can get a good look at it, before aiming and chucking the rock with pitcher's precision towards the wire of the fence.

She hesitates on instinct, expecting the tell-tale crackle of electricity and a seared stone to potentially kick start a brush fire amongst the long grain surrounding them. But nothing of the sort happens, the fence remaining dull and unassuming as the gravel pings off its wiring and lands in the grass unmarred.

Riley blinks, totally stunned. Stepping forward, she reaches out and hovers her fingers over the fence. No sign of the hum of electricity she was so easily trained to believe ran through the wires at all times. "It's broken?"

"Not entirely," Alan concedes, jogging up to join her. "You always gotta toss a rock its way, make sure it's not one of the few hours its actually up and running. But typically—,"

To accent the point, he touches the wire with his own hand, nodding for Riley to go on and do the same. She does, closing her fingers around the thin metal without the slightest shock or discomfort. The fence is nothing more than a deterrent in her grasp, effective on the basis of fear rather than voltage.

Alan grabs the bottom of the fence and lifts it high enough for the two of them to crawl through. Then he looks to her, gesturing her onward. "After you."

Riley stares, frozen by the possibilities of what might be waiting on the other side. Never having considered that going beyond it, beyond what she was taught to know and understand, was ever even an option. She glances over her shoulder, back to the familiarity of the district and her parents who she knows would lose their minds if they knew she was venturing illegally out of bounds.

Then, she thinks of Clarissa—a girl trapped by circumstances she never had the option to search beyond—and she decides her parents can deal with a little discomfort. Besides, she trusts her grandfather, and she has the distinct feeling that since he's rarely around he won't be ratting her out any time soon.

Taking a deep breath, Riley wills herself to be bold and ducks under the fence.

Alan isn't far behind, and in seconds the two of them are heading towards the underbrush just a few footfalls away from the district line. So close to her this entire time, yet deceptively out of reach by the roadblocks she'd built up in her mind. It amazes her to realize how much of her world view is shaped by others—the Capitol and their propaganda, her parents and their intense drive to shield her at all costs, her stay in the Victor's Village and the comfort it keeps her nested in every single day.

Regardless of what happens in the next couple of days, Riley decides she wants to do more thinking for herself.

She follows her grandfather about ten feet into the woods, coming to a stop at a somewhat open clearing amidst the tree cover. The scenery is dotted with natural flora, but what sticks out to her are the patches of flowers that seem to have grown completely out of place with the rest of the scenery. Obviously deliberately planted, two separate collections of blossoms more beautiful than anything Riley has seen in the confines of the district.

"The ones on the left, the pink ones, those are for your grandmother," Alan explains softly. "Always her favorite flower, but they don't grow very often around these parts. Had to do a special trade at the Hob and have them sent from 5."

Slowly, recognition dawns on Riley. She kneels down in front of the second patch, the small groupings of baby blue petals just as charming as the person she knows they were planted to represent.

"And those blue ones—,"

"Josh," she murmurs, delicately running her fingers over the petals.

For all the time she's spent dusting off his portrait in the memorial chamber and thinking about his absence over the years, for the first time she feels closer to him than ever before. Some of the warmth he used to bring so effortlessly into her life is suddenly in full bloom here, as untamed and radiant as the sun beating down on them earlier.

Alan crouches down next to her, gently adjusting the soil around Amy's collection. "When they sent him back to us, there was a big debate over what exactly to do with him. No one could decide what was best. Your father, he couldn't even look at him—and he didn't ever let you close enough to see the casket. Honestly, think that was probably for the best."

Riley can't argue with that. She much prefers the memories she has of her uncle alive, and she doesn't know what seeing him lifeless would've done to her at the age of twelve.

"Your parents decided they didn't want anything to do with it. Wasn't Josh anymore, after all, and they didn't want that memory haunting the house. Now your aunt, she thought that was a bunch of bull. Totally offended, thought it was an insult to his memory. She was the closest in age to him, and I think she took the hit worst of all." Alan sighs, gazing at the patch of blues. "Me, I was just sick of the fighting. Sick of the eggshells we had to walk around on in that place, all the energy it took to keep up the illusion of strength only to have it shattered so quickly. I wanted rest—for myself, but more so for Josh. So I opted to take him and gave him the spot out here. Right outside the house he barely got to grow up in, considering how young he was when Eric won his Games."

She's grateful her grandfather was there to speak for Josh when seemingly no one else would. Just spending a moment in it, she can tell there's no better place for him to stay resting. With the fresh air and thoughtful touches and the vast expanse of the world all around them, it feels like the perfect setting for him to end up—somewhere he feels as free as his adventurous and ambitious personality always seemed to want to explore.

"Not long after those Games, well, you know what happened to your grandmother. So I figured I'd give her the same sort of reprieve, right here next to her son. Eric came out to help, in fact. And then it simply felt strange, not being near them and so far across town. So I moved back into the ranch house and let myself be." He sighs. "I think at some point, we got so wrapped up in being this legendary force, this pinnacle of what the district had to offer, that we forgot how to be us. How to be the Matthews."

Riley can feel the tears threatening to well up in the back of her throat. She's not sad, exactly, but the loss of her uncle and childhood best friend is hitting her deeply, perhaps for the first time since he boarded the train to the Capitol and went away. She never did mourn him properly, in a way that felt real. Little did she know he was so close, just waiting for her to come and pay him a visit.

"You're nervous about the Reaping," Alan guesses. "Even after five years of dodging a bullet."

She doesn't want to explain all of the jagged edges to the story. She doesn't want to get into the risk she seems to be elevating for others and the sense of dread that's been heavy on her shoulders since the summer rolled around, some premonition warning her that this year is not going to be like the others. A completely irrational notion spurring very real nerves.

She simply nods, keeping her eyes on the lovely memorial in front of them.

Tentatively, Alan reaches out and pats her shoulder. It's not quite familiar, overtly simple, but it's been so long since she's had any sort of affectionate contact with her grandfather that the gesture alone feels like the warmest embrace she could imagine.

"What I've come to discover is that life, at the end of the day, is all about choices," he says softly, choosing his words carefully. "Whatever happens at that town square will happen regardless of whether you're down in the dirt working your fingers to the bone or cozy in your Victor's Village bed every night. At the end of the day, we're all the same, and we're all facing the same challenges. Just trying to survive."

Riley hangs on his every word, searching for advice. Searching for answers that will make this sticky scenario she's found herself boxed into less complicated in its resolution.

"What matters is our choices, Riley. How we choose to respond to each situation we're confronted with. Whether that's the easy or hard decision, I can't say. But you have to choose the moves that feel most true to you." He gives her shoulder a squeeze, casting another look at the miniature cemetery. "As long as you know your own heart, then you can't go wrong."

She knows it's not that simple. She knows that decisions are far tougher and more complex than that, that even heinous ones like the one her mother made are done with the best intentions. But she figures there's truth to her grandfather's words, a truth to the notion that if she lives life to the best of her ability and through the choices that feel right to her, then dying at some point along the way certainly couldn't be too much in vain.

Riley knows what she has to do. And if worse comes to worse, there's comfort in the fact that she knows if she ends up like her brave, brilliant best friend, at least her final resting place will be warm and full of love.

Even in the face of death, she figures, there's beauty to be found regardless.

* * *

Bold. That's the trait Riley attempts to conjure up as she reenters the Victor's Village and makes the trek back towards her mansion. The sun has begun to set and she's out far past her curfew, so she knows already that her mother and father aren't going to be pleased with her. But it's the necessary discussion that will come after the chiding that she fears will be much, much worse.

All the lights are on in the windows of her home, and she can see more than a couple silhouettes dancing in the shadows of their living area. A full house for what she's sure is going to be quite the spectacle.

Inhaling a deep breath, Riley pushes open the front door and steps inside.

She's greeted not by reprimands as she anticipates but a full-blown collision, Auggie barreling into her and wrapping his arms around her torso. She spent so much time preparing for the confrontation with her parents, she had completely forgotten to consider the other factor at play in all of this chaos.

"Riley!" he chirps, tightening his embrace and burrowing his head into her stomach. "You're back! Everyone was so worried. No one knew where you were. Why didn't you tell anyone you were leaving?"

"I had the same question," Topanga states, appearing in the doorway to the living area. Her tone is less concerned than Auggie's, heavier with the tension of having to be the authoritarian in the situation. Her mother is unfailingly complex, even in her simplest of parenting moments.

Riley leans down to meet her brother at eye level, ruffling his curly hair and giving him a reassuring smile. "Just some things I had to take care of. If you go and get ready for bed, I promise I'll come tell you all about it."

"Okay, but don't leave out anything cool," Auggie demands, already darting his way towards the stairs. "Even if mommy says not to tell me!"

"Wouldn't dream of it," she assures him, keeping the pleasant smile on her face until he's disappeared out of view. Then she locks eyes with her mother, expectant gaze already making her feel guilty for statements she hasn't even said aloud yet.

Topanga nods stiffly towards the living area, where the rest of her assembled family is waiting. "Now. Seems we have a lot to discuss."

Riley tries her best to remain level-headed like her grandfather, not allowing her emotions to get the best of her in a conversation she knows is going to be full of landmines that could easily become explosive. But she feels a shrivel of indignation at the tone in Topanga's voice, as if she's the one who should be in trouble when she's not the one who was bargaining the life of others.

"Yes," she states, marching past her mother and into full counsel. "I think we do."

It's odd to see all of her older family members assembled in one room without absolute necessity, especially before the Reaping eve party the following evening. Cory jumps to his feet the moment she enters, concern more clearly outlined in his features as he pulls her into a hug. Eric watches from the archway to the kitchen, relieved, while Morgan remains unimpressed, arms crossed over her chest and legs crossed in the large, cushy armchair she's elected to occupy.

"Where the hell have you been?" Cory stammers, pulling back from her and checking her for injury. As if her neglecting to arrive home before nightfall is as dangerous as an evening in the arena. "No note? No explanation? All we get is coming home to Morgan telling us you came by after school only to storm off without a word. Do you have any idea how stressful that is?"

Riley pulls out of his hold, stepping back to give herself a little more room to breathe. If she's going to stand her ground, she's going to need it. "Then I suppose Morgan told you what we chatted about when I stopped by."

Topanga frowns. "No. She said you didn't say anything. That you just left."

"She's correct, I didn't." She locks eyes with her aloof aunt, trying to pick apart the intrigued expression on her face. Wondering if she believes she'll really bring it up, or if she's simply bluffing. "Because I didn't have to. She spoke enough for the both of us."

"You said something?" Cory exclaims, as if this suddenly paints the picture crystal clear. He pushes past Riley and approaches his younger sister, judgment already permeating his expression. "What did you say to her?"

Morgan crinkles her nose. "What makes you assume I said something to make her leave? Or that I said anything at all?"

"Because you always have something to say," Cory snaps.

Eric shushes both of them, holding up a diplomatic hand and waiting for them to go silent. He nods to Riley, indicating that she should continue. Advocating for her, as he always seems to be in the darkest of times.

Riley clears her throat, locking her fingers together in front of her to keep from fidgeting. "All she asked was if I had discovered mom's contingency plan. You know, the thing you all had been arguing about for nights without bothering to tell me about it."

Cold silence rushes over the room, casting all of them in the shallows of being caught. Even Eric looks reproachful, stunned at the prospect of Riley putting together the pieces of the puzzle they'd been building without her.

Topanga recovers first, as she's the most practiced in tense situations. Naturally. "I don't have the faintest idea—,"

"Clarissa Cruz," Riley states, stepping forward and raising her eyebrows. "That name mean anything to you?"

Her mother blinks, and that instance of vulnerability alone convinces Riley that she's not on the wrong path. "I don't—,"

"Don't lie, mother," she pleads, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Willing herself not to lose control of her emotions and do something silly like cry. Not when she needs to be strong on behalf of the ones not fortunate enough to be here for themselves. "Lying is only going to make this so much worse."

Silence encroaches on the space again, seeping into the cracks in the floorboards and chilling the room in spite of the muggy summer heat. Topanga opens her mouth to retort, but after a moment of indecision she lets it drift closed. Allowing Riley the floor, as she so wisely suggested.

"Clarissa Cruz is girl in my year," she starts, hands trembling. She can't determine if it's out of nerves, or out of anger for the girl she's currently speaking for. "Oldest daughter of four, working alongside a single mother, skipping days of school to help make ends meet. Endearingly sweet. Sings the mountain song better than anybody in our school, but so shy she never bothers to audition for the solos."

Eric drops his gaze to the floor, shaking his head. Cory can't look away, volleying his attention between the two of them.

"Clarissa Cruz is the girl you promised to pay off in exchange for volunteering in my place at the Reaping, should things not go my way." Riley grits her teeth. "Surely, you remember that, at least."

Topanga holds her gaze impressively well, but she can see the cracks in the foundation where the guilt and uncertainty and defensiveness are threatening to leak through.

In a way, it's a relief to see those things. At least she knows that somewhere deep down, her mother knows her decision was wrong.

"You don't understand," Cory jumps in, immediately searching for a way to remedy the issue. "The things we're trying to protect you from, you haven't seen—,"

"So, what?" Riley turns her gaze on her father. Her resolve almost crumbles when she takes in the pained expression on his face, how earnest and genuine he is about his fear of her entering that arena. The fear that she will ever have to see or experience the horrors he himself survived. "So some other girl is more worthy of being sent to her death than me?"

His frown only deepens. "No, of course not. But Riley—,"

"There's nothing else to be said about it. I know that you all want to protect me. I understand that. But the fact of the matter is, just because I live in this fancy house set apart from the rest of our district doesn't mean that I'm not a part of it. It doesn't mean that I'm exempt from the risks the rest of the children here have to face every single year."

Topanga's turn to shake her head. She pinches the bridge of her nose, evidently frustrated with how quickly all of her precautions fell apart.

Riley is out of sympathy to give. She gave most of it to the rest of their district counterparts over the course of the afternoon, and she can't help but think they're far more deserving of it.

"You're going to give the Cruz family the money."

Eric raises his eyebrows. Topanga lifts her head, locking eyes with her daughter and cocking her head as if she didn't quite hear her correctly. Daring her to say it again. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"You're going to give Clarissa Cruz the money." Riley holds her ground, determining this to be the one moment where she doesn't let her apprehension win out. Where she doesn't let her voice waver or her intentions be muddied. "You're going to tell her she can save her luck for herself, and you're going to give her family the payment regardless. They need it far more than we do."

"I don't know what you think you're talking about," Topanga says warningly, but Riley doesn't let her finish the sentence.

"You're going to give. Clarissa. The money," she commands, words shaky not with trepidation but with rage. All of the anger she figures must be directed at her, at their family, hundreds times a day by dozens of residents who have to suffer while they live a life of relative luxury. She steps towards her firmly, earning an amused eyebrow raise from Morgan as she watches from her perch. "And you are going to tell her there is no way in hell that she volunteers for me if the universe decides the Matthews family tradition shall continue."

Topanga turns up her nose, attempting to maintain an air of authority. But so much of their world order has crumbled around them, and Riley can tell in the way her eyes are glimmering that she's contemplating the decision. That remorse is a more powerful motivator than security, particularly when the one you were so harshly working to protect no longer wants any part of it.

"And what makes you so sure I'll do just that? You have no idea what the arena is like, the things it can do to you. You have no idea what it is we're protecting you from."

Riley exhales, chewing her lip as she searches for the answer. "Because I know you know it's the right thing to do. And if we're defined by our choices, if that's what makes us who we are, then I know you're going to make the right one eventually. But I will never stop fighting this, and if for whatever reason it's my name that gets drawn from that bowl, regardless of who speaks up I will walk onto that stage and I will follow in the footsteps of every single Matthews child who had to take this journey before me. That much, I can promise you without question."

There's nothing left to say. Riley avoids the gaze of all her family members on her as she retreats from the room, heading up to say goodnight to her brother and absorb the normalcy for what she's suddenly feeling is a fleeting amount of time.

* * *

The morning of the Reaping, Riley makes a concerted effort to leave the house as early as possible. She dresses in her periwinkle cotton garb and braids her hair on either shoulder out of her face, then darts down the stairs to beat her mother and father to the town center. She doesn't want to run into either of them if she can help it.

What she doesn't plan for, yet again, is her baby brother. He's waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, nowhere near ready to attend the ceremony but wide awake at the prospect of her leaving.

Something about the image of him sitting at the foot of the stairs is hauntingly familiar. She can remember being seated in the same spot the morning of Josh's final Reaping, unable to sleep as it was her first ever year as an eligible contender. She can remember Josh coming down to settle beside her just as she does with Auggie now, granting her reassurances that everything would turn out all right for her. That in a few short hours, it would all be over and life could proceed on as normal.

She can't help but note the similarities as she settles down to do the same thing, brushing the hair from Auggie's forehead and promising him that no matter what happens, everything is going to be okay. Knowing she's thwarted her own ability to grant him such assurances, but saying them anyway because it's far easier than processing the alternatives.

As she leaves him behind and makes her way towards the square, she has to wonder if Josh felt the same sense of impending doom.

She knows it's simply her anxiety playing tricks on her, but as the Peacekeeper pricks her finger to mark her attendance she can't help but think all the effort she's put into keeping her status of eligibility fair can only signal a greater incoming dilemma. She doesn't believe in coincidence, and her pounding heart and lightheadedness are screaming at her that it can't be happenstance that this is the year Topanga decided to try so hard to keep her safe. It can't be happenstance that this is the year she discovered where Josh is actually buried, as if she isn't going to join him in just a few weeks.

It can't be coincidence that standing there in the middle of the square as the rest of her classmates file in, she's suddenly convinced this is the last time she's ever going to see it.

She spends the better part of the hour before the ceremony begins trying to keep her breathing even, figuring the only thing worse than getting her name called out in a few minutes time would be to pass out before that possibility even occurs. She watches as her classmates file in and families gather around the pens they've been assigned to, ready to watch with bated breath as their children are selected at random to fight for their lives again.

Riley catches Clarissa enter the seating area, but she can't tell from her expression whether or not anything has changed. She sees her mother take her seat up on the stage with Morgan and Eric and the Capitol representative, but her face is even harder to read. As the representative greets them all too cheerfully and the annual propaganda video begins rolling, she's worried herself into a spiral and can feel her palms prickling with the very real potential of fainting.

"As usual," the representative chirps, heels clicking as she makes her way to the bowl set up in front of their section, "let's start with the girls."

If her name is called and Clarissa steps up, she has to volunteer anyway. She cannot take the easy way out, no matter how conveniently the universe seems to have set her up to take it.

Seconds longer of uncertainty. Seconds longer of normalcy.

"Riley Matthews!"

She hears the ripple of reaction from the crowd around her before she comprehends the reality of it for herself. Her female classmates around her immediately step back to give her a wide berth, eyes wide and expressions shocked. Based on the rumors they've likely heard, she can't say she's so surprised.

For a moment, she doesn't move. She holds her breath, glaring at the back of Clarissa's head and counting down from ten. Hoping, praying, that she makes it to zero without interruption.

Nothing happens. No one volunteers. It's just the crackling of the microphone and the square shuffling impatiently around her as she stands stock still in the astonishment of it, finally feeling some blood begin flowing back to the rest of her body.

"Riley? Come along, dear. Don't be shy, now."

Oddly, getting to make the walk up to the stage is a strange sort of relief.

She doesn't have time to acknowledge the fact that her premonition was eerily accurate. She doesn't have the strength to pay attention as a boy is called up to face the same fate as her, the blood rushing in her ears blocking out all other noise and rendering her useless. It's all she can do not to turn around and face the pained expression of her family, but she can feel their eyes boring into the back of her head like daggers.

Finally, the ceremony concludes and she and her new district partner are directed towards the city hall doors. She catches one last glance at the crowd, looking just in time to see Haley breeze through the crowd to come to Clarissa's side and engage in frantic chatter. The two of them look towards her and meet her eyes, regret passing between the three of them although Riley isn't sure what or who it's intended for the most.

She makes it through the doors and into the city hall atrium before she collapses, nerves finally getting the best of her when she's out of sight of the rest of the world.

* * *

She comes back around a few minutes later, reclining in a small, library-like room she doesn't recognize as unfamiliar Peacekeepers poke and prod at her to assess her condition. Considering she's likely in for a lot of poking and prodding, she figures she might as well get used to it.

"She's awake," one of them reports, and suddenly Eric is at her side. At first she's confused as to why he's there at all, but then she remembers his status as a mentor. Although it felt like goodbye, it seems she won't be without allies for a little while longer.

He gives her a proud smile, lightly slapping her clammy cheeks and exhaling a laugh. "Don't worry, happens all the time. Should've seen me when I was Reaped. Vomited all over the Peacekeeper guiding me away."

Eric helps her sit up, Riley's head still feeling strangely empty as her body reorients itself to its new normal. She figures she's about to endure quite a bit of drastic changes to her environment.

The Peacekeepers return a couple of minutes later with her parents in tow, informing her that she has two minutes to say her goodbyes. Now that she has to face them, her resolve to do the right thing is suddenly less confident than it was as she marched up to take her place on the stage.

She rises to her feet and steps away from the comforting presence of her uncle, coming to stand in front of her mother. Her expression is hard to read as usual, but she can tell that disbelief is prevalent amongst all of them. Trying to absorb the fact that all of their shared dread about this year proved to be oddly pertinent, wishing with all their might that they could've been wrong.

Still, Riley is grateful that her mother listened to her conscience. That she didn't take the easy way out and send someone else to their death in her place. If that's the last thing Riley ever ends up doing, then she figures it's a perfectly honorable legacy to leave behind.

"I'm proud of you," she says softly, locking eyes with her mother. Searching for the warmth in her eyes that she hasn't seen in almost four years, since the last time they were here to say goodbye. "I'm proud that you made the right decision."

Topanga holds her gaze, obviously torn up beneath her professional façade. She opens her mouth to speak then thinks better of it, changing tracks and stepping back a bit. "Tell that to him."

She pulls forward her hand and allows Auggie to step into view, cheeks already stained with tears and on the verge of being inconsolable. He looks up to Riley, eyes wide with terror, and she feels all of her resolve and bravery fade away in an instant.

She drops down to her knees to get to his level. "Auggie—,"

He collides with her again, holding her in a hug impressively tight for a child. She returns the embrace, pouring enough love into the squeeze to last him two weeks. To last him forever, if the odds continue to be out of her favor.

"They can't take you," he says tearfully, tears dripping down his face and staining the cotton of her Reaping dress. "Riley, don't let them take you away."

"It's going to be fine."

"Don't let them take you where Josh went," he sobs, pulling back from the hug to lock eyes with her. "Don't let them take you there, because he didn't come back."

Riley feels her lip tremble, willing herself to hold it together as long as he's with her. She needs to be strong for him, just like Josh when he gave her the same courageous speech.

"Auggie, I promise you I will do everything I can to come back home," she declares, gripping his shoulders and making him look her in the eyes. "But I need you to be just as brave while I'm gone. Take care of daddy, and don't let mommy get too caught up in her head. People are counting on her not to do that. I'll promise you, if you can promise me that?"

 _Promise?_ She can hear the echo of her uncle rattling around in her skull. How he made a promise he ultimately couldn't keep.

Auggie nods, sniffling and wrapping her in another hug. "I promise."

She holds onto him until the Peacekeepers arrive to pull them away. She rises to her feet again, locking eyes with her father before he cracks and yanks her into a tight embrace in the remaining seconds they have left.

"I'll make you proud," she whispers, not at all surprised to discover that the warm embrace of her father is the hardest one to step away from.

He squeezes her tight, swaying them a bit until he's forced to let go. "You already do."

Riley manages to keep her emotions in check as long as they're in the room, watching with an ache in her throat as her family walks away from her for what may well be the last time. She silently lets a couple tears fall as she and Eric make the trek to the train waiting for them outside city hall, already geared up to take them far away from home to the Capitol for the next phase of the journey.

When they board and enter the dining car, Riley is surprised to find Evan Holt standing in his Reaping best and looking out the windows. She hadn't registered which boy from her district had been chosen in the chaos, but looking at her former crush of the last few years now it seems obvious. Of course, it would be the only guy she's ever minimally shown interest in, effectively killing whatever possible romance they had.

If the universe is intent on making the last two weeks of her life as hellish as possible, she sure hopes it enjoys itself.

Evan offers Riley an awkward smile, shifting his attention to Eric without a moment's hesitation. "You're Eric Matthews? My mentor?"

"That's right," he says with his usual friendly tenor, offering a hand for Evan to shake. Eric casts one more glance to his niece before nodding to the next car "Let's have a chat. I'd like to get to know you as much as possible before we talk strategy."

Riley admires how seriously Eric takes his role as mentor, aiming to give their kids the best shot they have at an insurmountable challenge. Even when his own family is on the chopping block, he's not going to let his mentee fall through the cracks. She has to respect it, even if it sends nerves through her whole body.

As the two of them exit, Morgan enters the train car from the other end, assessing the situation and observing Riley carefully. Obviously aware of how events unfolded in the last forty-eight hours, a witness to all of it and intrigued to see how Riley composes herself in the face of everything she's headed towards at Capitol-grade speed.

She's never quite known how to interact with her aunt. Now, she's counting on her to give her the tools to make it back alive.

After a long moment of scrutiny, her aunt cracks a smile. She lifts her hand and gently takes Riley's chin, tapping it affectionately a giving her a proud look.

"That's my niece."

* * *

Riley had heard legend of the extravagance of the Capitol, but seeing it in person is almost impossible to believe. She and Evan spend a majority of the first day staring in awe as the glamour and glitz unveils itself around them, boasting an exuberant amount of discretionary funds in comparison to their district home that seems to be falling apart at the seams.

Thankfully, Riley's standing as mayor's daughter seems to do her one favor. She's a little more prepared for the rich Capitol cuisine than her counterpart, Evan spending a majority of the evening vomiting simply because his body isn't accustomed to such fanciful food. She battles her fair share of nausea, but she manages to get some sleep without completely upchucking her insides.

The evening before the opening ceremonies, Eric meets with her privately and sits her down to talk without Morgan or Evan. Once he's sure the coast is clear he hands her a worn notebook, no larger than her hand and sealed with a cord. As she flips it open, she absorbs the scribbles in unfamiliar handwriting and sketches of people and places totally foreign to her.

She lifts her gaze to lock eyes with her uncle. "What is this?"

"How I survived," he says sagely. He points to the page she's opened, letting her read some of the notes for a moment. "The thing about these Games is they're designed to dehumanize. You, your competitors, the whole world around you. It's easy to forget who you are, and even easier to forget that your fellow tributes are just as scared and vulnerable as you are."

She takes in his hasty scrawl from decades ago, writing small details about the children he was entering the arena with and little things that stood out to him. An odd practice in theory, but immediately Riley understands the appeal.

She doesn't want the Games to change her into something she's not. If she has to go down fighting, she wants to go down feeling like herself.

"You're so good at observing people, I thought you might find solace in the same method," he explains. He places his hands over hers, securing the notebook in her possession. "Don't ever lose sight of your humanity, Riley. That's going to be what keeps you alive."

Riley takes the guidance of her oldest uncle to heart, viewing the world of the Capitol with an observant eye the moment training begins the morning of the second day. She carries the notebook with her everywhere—weapons training, meals, the sparse nuggets of alone time when she gets the time to sort out her thoughts. She perches on the windowsill in their district accommodations and watches the bustle of the Capitol below, taking time to journal all the small moments she observed throughout the day.

She notes how the girl from District 3 can't seem to keep her glasses on her nose, but how she seems perfectly capable of anything else the Games might require of her. She notices how although they don't interact publicly, the boy from 3 is constantly glancing in her direction, watching his district counterpart from afar with an almost steadfast devotion. She'd heard rumors about the mayor's boy who volunteered out of nowhere in a shocking twist, giving him an edge of hype as they all headed to the Capitol. Observing him as they work through training and he mostly keeps to himself, she doesn't see how he's much of a mystery at all.

Seeing as all he can seem to focus on is his counterpart, she gets the feeling his decision volunteer has everything to do with her.

Riley notes how the two children from District 6 have an effortless rapport and dynamic, making her a bit envious considering how fractured her relationship with Evan seems to be. He tells her the second night that he believes the best strategy would be for them to play separate games, especially considering her own uncle is his mentor. He doesn't want any distractions to prevent him from his own effective gameplay, and she supposes she has to respect that.

As nice as it would be to have an ally, she's rather used to going it alone. The Games would be the last place she would expect the status quo to change.

In spite of her dedication to observe rather than intimidate, Riley puts in a fair amount of effort into learning the tricks of the trade that might keep her alive. She makes the rounds to all the survival skill stations during training, picking up knot tying and snare building and plant identification. She keeps her distance from the weaponry, more than willing to take her chances and avoid the use of them at all costs.

It's at the plant station that she makes her first connection, standing next to the tall blonde from District 5 as they each work through their individual puzzle boards. She's not sure of her name or whether she's particularly friendly, but her notes from the last few days list her as having a "pretty smile" and certainly lacking the malice of some of the other kids from the early districts.

She's also currently far from intimidating, brow knit in confusion as she attempts to identify possibly poisonous plants. Riley notices her struggling, hand ghosting over the plant in the corner of the board and potentially costing her life if she fails to catch it in the arena.

"Nightlock."

The girl jumps, evidently startled at being addressed. She turns her bright blue eyes toward her, blinking in fear. "What?"

"Nightlock," Riley repeats, offering a shy smile and pointing out the button she overlooked. "You ingest that, you'll be dead in a minute. You'll want to avoid it, if you come across it in the arena."

The girl doesn't get the chance to comment. The lead trainer blows a whistle and signals they should switch up stations, not allowing Riley the chance to catch her name as she floats off to another station. But she feels good about her decision to speak, hopefully giving that girl a greater chance of survival.

As it turns out, the gesture of goodwill comes off even more welcome than anticipated. That evening at dinner the blonde spots her in the crowd of tributes, eating alone and scribbling in her notebook. She locks eyes with her and hesitates for a moment before marching over, coming to stand across from her.

"Is anybody sitting here?"

Riley shakes her head. "Nope."

The girl hesitates, uncertain if she should prompt the question. "Do you mind if I join you?"

Riley can't help the grin that spreads across her face. "Not at all."

The girl heaves a great sigh of relief, collapsing into the seat across from her and running her hands through her hair. The theatrics of it all would be somewhat amusing under any other circumstances, but considering the literal deadly stakes surrounding them as they mix and mingle between training to fight to death, Riley understands her level of anxiety perfectly.

Choosing what friends to make is hard enough on a regular day—the reality that said friends may decide to kill you at a moment's notice in a week's time is too much on top of an already stressful scenario.

"God, you have no idea how happy I am to hear that," she exhales, making a face. Riley fondly notes how expressive her face is. "I'm Darby, by the way. I'm from District 5."

"Riley. District 9."

"You're the mayor's daughter, right? Well, one of two mayor's children this year as my mentor tells me. Your counterpart isn't sitting with you?"

Riley nods at the empty seat next to her. "Decided we were better off playing separately."

"Mine too. And honestly, it's for the best. Wyatt is an absolute jerk, and totally out of his mind at fourteen. His big plan is to get in with the Careers so they'll protect him long enough for him to survive. Can you believe that?"

Riley tosses a glance towards the table of Careers, all seemingly best friends from the get-go and far more prepared for the Games than any of them could ever be. Her aunt warned her this tactic might be at play from the Careers, operating like a clique meant to make you feel isolated and unprepared so that you're far easier to take down.

She focuses predominantly on the fiery blonde laughing with the boy from District 1, sneering in the direction of the duo from 6 before muttering an obviously unkind comment to the group. She's supposedly the youngest tribute District 2 has had in years, a pattern that Eric and Morgan agree was always suspicious. Her counterpart is far from breaking the curve though, large and intimidating and lacking any sort of warmth in his features.

She's trying hard to see the humanity in all of her fellow tributes, but she's having trouble locating his to begin with.

"I wouldn't trust the Careers with my lunch, I'm pretty sure they'd split me open right now if they were allowed to."

"I'm sure that would take the fun out of the actual Games," Riley jokes, trying to keep the tone light.

Evidently, Darby is far from ready to look at the bright side. She twiddles her fingers nervously, far too anxious to eat the delicious meal served for her. "I don't know how the hell we're supposed to stand a chance. Everyone here is so much more… I don't even know. I mean, have you seen the boy from 10? He's a bull. I'm pretty sure he could crush me if I looked at him the wrong way."

She'd seen the boy from 10, yes. She's noticed him more than a couple times, honestly, somehow always managing to find him just as he looks her way and resulting in more than a few embarrassed stares as she quickly averts her eyes.

Riley lets her gaze drift beyond Darby, where the tributes from 10 are seated at the far table. Although they're sitting at opposite ends of the table, it's clear to her that the boy is very purposefully keeping his counterpart well within his line of sight. She's young, one of the youngest in the pack, and even though he does have a very convincing detached demeanor she can tell that he's looking out for her. He wears it on his sleeve like a badge, the tell-tale signs of being someone so trained to care for others even a situation as dire as the Games can't strip the instinct away.

He appears physically capable enough, certainly, but she has no idea what's actually underneath the hardened glare and broad shoulders.

Truthfully, she can't decide if she wants to know or not.

"I'm positive I'm going to die." Darby says the statement blankly, a declaration so profoundly forward she cannot wrap her brain around it. "That's such a strange thing to know, isn't it? That without a doubt, I'm going to die."

Riley focuses back on her new friend, seeing the fear laced through her expression despite her attempt to play it off breezily. She recognizes the dread she's been feeling since the Reaping rolled around again, that odd sense of certainty that your fate is out of your hands no matter how hard you try to negotiate with it.

She offers a sad smile, finding comradery in the tragic reality they're bound to share. "Me too."

Somehow, this honest admission does seem to make Darby feel a little bit better. She laughs in spite of herself, returning the grin before looking down to allow herself some food.

If she can assuage her fear for even a moment, then Riley figures she's making herself useful. If this really is to be her last few weeks on earth, then she decides there's no better way to go out.

* * *

Morgan vehemently disagrees with Riley's assessment of the situation.

To her aunt, she's far from a lost cause, and Riley's refusal to get tough or explore the harsh realities of what she's bound to face in the arena is excruciatingly frustrating. She finds their mentor discussions ending in an argument and an exasperated dismissal from Morgan more than a few times, and by the time they come around to scoring day it's established itself as a pattern. Despite her ability to pull a 7 from the judges for her demonstration of various survival skills, Morgan is unimpressed as the team lauds Evan's 8 and plots how to utilize this to their full advantage.

Riley doesn't question it until she's alone with her uncle once again, the two of them lingering in the common area of their suite as the styling teams head out and Evan heads to his room to freshen up before supper.

She wraps her arms around her knees, waiting for a moment to see if he will address the tension first. "Morgan hates me."

"She does not hate you," he says diplomatically, as if they're simply discussing a family matter rather than the dynamic that will make or break her survival in the Games. "You simply see things differently, that's all. You're looking at the Games with different perspectives."

"She wants me to be more violent," Riley states, hating the suggestion even just from the sound of it. She frowns, making herself smaller. "She wants me to act like more of a fighter but that's not me. It's just not. I don't even know how to do that."

Eric nods along. "I know. Believe me, I wasn't a fighter either."

"And you survived. So I don't see what the big deal is. She's acting like I'm not trying at all."

There's a long pause. Eric hums thoughtfully, propping his ankle on his knee and getting his thoughts together before he speaks again.

"Morgan had to play a very different game than I did," he explains. "For me, holding onto who I was and playing by my rules was the only way I knew I could live with myself if I somehow managed to survive. Morgan, she's not like that. She's always been tough, and much like your mother sometimes you have to be ruthless to survive the tough way. Sometimes, our way doesn't always guarantee success."

The allusion to their fallen family member goes without saying. Riley absorbs the silence, propping her chin on her knees and chewing the inside of her cheek.

"I'm not saying that Morgan is right or wrong. But she's playing the game the only way she knows how, and she wants more than anything for you to get to go home. To see you refusing what she knows is a smart strategy, that's hard for her. But she wants you to succeed as much as any of us, and I assure you she'll do whatever it takes."

Riley ruminates on this, trying to see the situation through her aunt's eyes. She's never quite understood her, but she's always respected her. She doesn't know the things she had to endure to make it out of her Games, and she's certain she'll never be able to grasp the horrors of it until she's facing it for herself. For now, all she can do is try to maintain her compassion, and learn whatever she can from her until her time is up.

"This might be the last conversation we get, kiddo," Eric admits quietly, frowning when surprise takes over her features. He tosses a glance towards Evan's wing. "There's only a couple of days left, and I know Evan is getting antsy. Regardless of how much I assure him I'm on his side, the more he sees me talking to you the less he believes I'm going to advocate for him. And you know I want you to win, I do. But I owe my best effort to him, too."

Riley can imagine how Evan must be feeling. If her mentor seemed to have ulterior motives, or worse didn't seem to care much at all, she knows it wouldn't help her confidence. Swallowing her hurt, she manages a nod.

Eric gets to his feet, holding out a hand and shaking his head. His voice betrays him, trembling as he addresses her again. "You didn't think I'd make it a goodbye without a hug, did you?"

Riley breaks into a weak smile, allowing him to pull her into a tight embrace. The two of them absorb the moment of connection in silence, Riley savoring the familiarity and the safety of it for as long as she can. Knowing she'll need plenty of it when she steps off her platform in just a couple of nights.

"You're the best the Matthews family has to offer," Eric tells her. "If anyone is going to come home stronger than before, it's going to be you. That much, I know without a doubt."

Eric has always seemed to know things by some natural gift. Riley can only hope his intuition is right in this case, allowing her the chance to survive these dangerous games and make it home in one piece.

* * *

The rest of the reprieve seems to pass in a blur. She stumbles through her interview without disaster, Caesar seemingly charmed by her natural kindness and girl-next-door innocence. She hopes the audience and sponsors were equally as impressed.

She nearly trips when she descends the steps and disappears backstage, passing by Evan without comment as he heads to the stage for his time to shine. She casts a glance towards the young girl from 10 anxiously waiting for her slot next, then up towards the stoic presence of her district counterpart behind her.

As they've managed to do all week long, his eyes meet hers the moment she's fixated on him. She doesn't shy away from this exchange, attempting to get a read on him in the brief second it takes to pass him on her way out. All she can register is that his expression is unbelievably hard to puzzle together, and his eyes are so dizzyingly green.

Then she leaves him behind, praying to whoever might be listening that she doesn't have to face him again in the arena. Because she's fairly certain if they cross paths, she's not going to make it out of another tacit exchange alive.

The morning of the Games, Riley packs up her things and ties her hair back out of her face, in the signature dual braid look her stylist deemed the perfect look to capture her natural innocence. She leaves the journal behind on her bed, committing all of the small, meaningful details of her tributes and her journey to memory before she has to leave it behind for good.

Then she joins Evan in the common area, the two of them exchanging few words as they're lead out of the building and towards the ship that will take them to the arena to begin the end of their lives.

Riley doesn't start to feel jittery until she's trapped in the departure room all alone, pacing and eyeing the clear tube that will send her up towards the playing field in a few short minutes. She tries to remember all of the beautiful things, tries to think of her uncles and her parents and Auggie to keep her head on her shoulders.

As if on cue, just as she's thinking of her strong and determined aunt she appears, stepping into the room to give her final goodbyes.

"Sorry I'm a little late," she says, keeping her eyes on the floor as she approaches. "Sure you'd much rather have Eric here."

Riley shakes her head. "It's good to have you here. I don't think anyone could send me off with as much confidence as you."

Morgan manages a smile, the comment seeming to bolster her spirits a bit. She clears her throat, reaching into her jacket and retrieving an item from the inside pocket.

"You still need your district token," she explains. She holds out the object for her. "Eric said this might be just what you need."

Riley's eyes widen as she takes the journal from her hands, having left it behind thinking she would never see it again. A small, unfamiliar pen has been tucked into the binding, one she recognizes as the one Morgan has been impatiently tapping and twirling all week long.

"I've been hard on you," Morgan admits.

She lifts her gaze from the notebook, shrugging her shoulders. "Someone had to be."

"I think Eric is right," she continues, swallowing hard. She takes the journal back and unzips Riley's jacket, searching for the inside pocket and securing the token inside where it will travel safely. It rests against her chest right above her heart, emphasizing the frantic pounding of it against her rib cage. "I don't want you to forget who you are. You're not me, and I didn't acknowledge that like I should have."

"You were a great mentor," Riley assures her.

"That doesn't matter now. What I'm trying to say is…" Morgan exhales harshly, searching for the words. She takes Riley's shoulders, gripping them tightly as the speaker overhead warns her that she has one minute remaining to board the tube. "People change in the arena. All that humanity you saw may not exist the moment you step off those platforms. I know mine went away fast enough."

Riley swallows, trying not to let her fear get the best of her. The way her limbs are trembling aren't a promising indicator. She hopes she doesn't pass out again.

"I don't want you to ever experience that the way I did. So remember your humanity. Don't play my game, don't play Eric's. Play yours. That's what is going to bring you back home to us." She locks eyes with her, glossed over with tears. "And you _are_ coming home to us."

"30 seconds," the intercom intones, crackling overhead.

Riley doesn't have the time to thank her properly. She doesn't have the time and she doesn't have the words, so she settles for a hug instead. It's tight, stiff, one of the first she's shared with her aunt in years. But somehow, it's exactly what she needs.

"Gotta go," she breathes when she pulls apart, willing herself to have a fraction of her confidence. A fraction of Eric's ingenuity, her father's optimism, Josh's effortless charm. "I have a legacy to uphold."

Morgan manages a smile, tapping her chin affectionately one last time. Then she lets her go, Riley taking the short march to the transport cylinder just in time to slip inside before it locks her away.

She gets one more boost of confidence from the pride in her aunt's expression. Then the world dissolves into darkness as the platform begins to ascend, sending her up towards the rest of the Games and transforming the confidence into adrenaline.

She's not another statistic in a long list of child sacrifices sent here to be slaughtered. She's not going to become someone she's not. She's Riley Matthews, daughter of Cory and Topanga, and she has the best parts of both of them. She has the best parts of all of her family, but it's her own determination that is going to keep her alive.

The sun is tantalizingly bright as she is elevated into the arena for the first time, so overwhelming that she's temporarily blinded. All she can make out is the sound of the clock, counting down her last moments of sanity before the whole world as she knows it erupts into chaos.

Riley exhales a deep breath, willing herself to be bold as the gong rings in her ears.

Let the Games begin.

* * *

 **A/N:** Happy Ficmas, day 4! Once upon a time, I started this AU with the intention of it being my 2018 project. Then I updated about once every three months, and made a joke at the end of my last update that I hopefully wouldn't be gone longer than three months.

Now it's been six months. Haha, so funny. Love that.

ANYWAY, I was determined to update this fic as part of Ficmas and get us out of Part 1 before 2018 came to a close. So now I can happily declare that we'll be jumping into the arena when we jump into 2019, and I for one am pretty excited.

If you're still around, thanks for being so patient. :) Now baby, let the Games begin...


	5. Tribute Guide

**THE TRIBUTES**

 **District 1 /** Billy Ross (17) and Missy Bradford (15)

 **District 2 /** Thor (18) and Maya Hart (17)

 **District 3 /** Farkle Minkus (15) and Isadora Smackle (15)

 **District 4 /** Charlie Gardner (16) and Chai Fresco (16)

 **District 5 /** Wyatt Livingston (14) and Darby Walker (17)

 **District 6 /** Isaiah Babineaux (15) and Vanessa Johnson (15)

 **District 7 /** Jeff (13) and Sage (17)

 **District 8 /** Nigel Chey (14) and Sarah Carpenter (16)

 **District 9 /** Evan Holt (17) and Riley Matthews (16)

 **District 10 /** Lucas Friar (17) and Jade Beamon (14)

 **District 11 /** Dave Williams (16) and Yindra Amino (15)

 **District 12 /** Yogi (12) and Marley (16)


End file.
